


O my, America!

by Celeste666



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aliens, Angels, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Minor Violence, New York City, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Psychic Violence, Romance, Sex, Threats of Violence, other dimension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8556856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celeste666/pseuds/Celeste666
Summary: Trying to find a home in New York City after the events in portrayed in Civil War, Steve Rogers finds past associations continue pulling new doors open for him.  Nick Fury is still a chess master but the board continues to get larger and the strategy more complex.  New, enchanting players, change the game.





	1. A Part of This Op

 

 

**A PART OF THIS OP**

"Ummm.”  She heard the now familiar voice down beside her at floor level.  She kept her eyes closed.  “Did nobody mention that you weren’t supposed to be part of this operation?”  Some warmth was mixed with the exasperation.  She raised a finger.

“I’m pretty sure there was a double negative in there somewhere.” 

 

He sighed.  She heard the crowd shuffle again.

“OK doc,” another familiar accent drifting down from above her along with the jingle of keys, cuffs and other cop what-not.  “Definite red card on the play.  Immediate ejection from the game.”

“Javier, Man!” she started gesturing.  “You had no angle on that play!”

“Oh,” he interrupted.  “So, I knew you’d object, so, I consulted the camera see…”  She heard rustling; slit her eyes open.  Steve was rising to stand, extending his hand.

“Officer, Steve Rogers.”  He introduced himself.

“Yeah,” Javier shaking his hand.  “Made you weeks ago.”

“ ’Cause of course,” she continued from her position, flat on her back on the filthy floor, “no reason for anyone to have introduced you guys.”

“So what’s on camera?” Steve asked.

“Oh, it’s good – the tackle.  Actually already downloaded it to my phone.”

“Hey!” Cedar started to object, sit up. Felt a stab and yelped, went back down on her right elbow, easing herself to the floor.  Both men were hovering now, one on either side.

Javier was whispering “Old injury?  Left side, right? I mean, ribs on the left, collarbone?”

“Pretty. Much.” She said slowly, exhaling with intention.

“Old injury?” Steve asked.

“Yah, probably from slide tackling someone.” Javier, deftly brushed it off.  

“As you well know, a slide tackle is a perfectly legal maneuver...” she attempted to play along as pain got in the way.

The cop interrupted, louder, “If you’re going for the ball lady, and never from behind!  Tell me doc, you’re in the subway, did I miss the ball?”  She laughed, sucked in a breath.

“Hey,” Javier’s hand light on her right shoulder.  “Now, let's not puncture a lung with any re-broken ribs, OK?”

“Ambulance?” asked Steve tightly.

“5-7 minutes out.” Javier responded.

“But” Steve began.  She felt something unspoken pass between the men that made him stop.  She sneaked a look and found Steve frowning down at her.  His face softened.

“Hey…” he began.  She snapped her eyes shut.

“Cedar.”  Stern, exasperated, then changing tone.

“What’s a slide tackle?”

“Oh!” Of course, he wouldn't know a thing about soccer.  She rotated her face his way. “Futbol!” she clarified with a gentle fist pump, as Javier chuckled.

“It’s this move where a player sort of – well, you do this move that looks kind of like sliding into a base in baseball, right?” checking to see if he was following.  He nodded eyes locked on hers.

“So feet first, one foot slightly in front of the other, timing it so you sort of thread the needle between the other player’s feet, the one dribbling the ball.”  Checking his face again for understanding.

“Time it right and the ball pops right out the other side, and they totally overrun it.  If you’re still on your feet you run right behind them and pick up the ball.  Or one of your other players picks it up.” She gestured toward herself, lying there. “If, say, you fall down.”

“OK,” Steve nodded then looked at Javier.  “Is this a level 2 or a level 3 concussion I’m looking at?”

“UH!” Cedar tsked and snapped her eyes shut again, with attitude.  Busted.

Javier chuckled.  “Nice one.  Don’t really categorize them like that anymore, by pupil size, but responsiveness wasn’t so hot when I shined my pin light in there.  So, talking in those terms, level 2 at least.”

“Uh, huh.” Steve said.

“Hey,” she resumed arguing,eyes still closed, but arms up gesturing. “Did I take him down?  I took him down right?”

“Yes, yes you did.  And yourself too.  You took him down and” he pause “concussed…yourself.”  Another sigh, but the warmth undeniable.

 

“OK,” Javier speaking and moving to standing. Through the roaring still in her ears she thought she could hear sirens.  Crackling of static then Javier responding.

“Say again?”  That was Steve, standing too. “OK, be right there.”

She opened her eyes in time to see him kneeling back down.  She tried to throw him shade but by the lurch in her stomach figured she’d only managed to cross her eyes.  He touched something behind his ear. Oh, ‘on coms’ was something she’d heard them say.  He’d been listening to someone else on the team, and was responding to them.

He looked at her, bit his bottom lip.  Looked around.  Javier was gone, probably clearing the way for EMTs.

“I gotta run – uh – check out something, but…” she was nodding.

“Sure, of course.” She began.

“Do you, uh, have a card or something?”  He was still looking around, scanning the chaos she guessed.  The ‘goon,’ as she was now calling him, had grabbed her bag.  She was pretty sure she’d broken a heel, and that her stockings were trashed, but someone had slipped her Baglucci under her head as a cushion. 

“Yeah,” she was reaching around carefully with her right arm and sliding it out from under.

“No wait, its OK, I…” he was still looking around.  

“Here,” she pushed it towards him.  “Just unzip the pocket on the back.  Cards are in there.”

She watched him fumble with the purse, unzip the back, take a card and put the card in his shirt pocket.  Now he was sliding the bag back toward her, lifting her head gently, his big hand warm on the back of her neck.  She shifted, trying to focus on his face, too close, all jawline; clenched.  Then his eyes on hers. A quiet, soft moment. Or maybe the haze of concussion?

Shaking his head, then softly, “Geez, Cedar.”

 

Javier was striding back, too loud, too much light, three EMTs with a stretcher. 

“Oh, Javi!” She nearly swore, but half-swooned instead.  He knelt again.

“Hey doc. Relax OK? Let these good folks do their jobs.”  Sterner than usual, then softer.  “Let’s keep those pretty green lights on, yeah?”

Steve shifted his gaze back to Javier, considering, then standing, extended his hand again.

“Good to meet you.”  They shook.  “Try to keep her off the field?” Inclining his head toward the floor to indicate Cedar.

“I’m just one man.”  Javier smiling.

 

 

‘That,’ he thought to himself, ‘was really not OK.’  ‘But what??’ he argued back. ‘No harm done.’ This op was over, they had someone in custody, maybe more by now.  ‘Still not OK’ came the echo, keeping the debate alive, hustling through the subway and starting up the stairs.

‘Hang on…’ came a thought.  ‘What would Buck say?’ ‘Nope, don't go there!’ announced the other side, and he couldn’t help but smile.  His friend would’ve moved on her three days into the operation.  The smile and frown chased each other  across his face.  It'd be nice to talk to that friend, that particular friend, right now. 

His pocket buzzed and rang as his feet hit the top step.  He grabbed it answering “Rogers.”

“Steve,” It was Natasha, direct, a little cross. ‘Crap!’ He thought.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He depressed the button on the device behind his ear.

“Something wrong with coms?” she asked, now in his head.

“No, no” he began and wondered if he was going to…“Maybe the subway?” Lie?  It looked that way.  Shook his head.  “You copy?”

“I copy.”  The voice in his ear clear and close, the suspicion in her voice.

‘Not OK,’ in his own head.

 

 

The EMTs had her out on the sidewalk, the ambulance pulled alongside.  She was semi-reclined in the stretcher about to be loaded in.  Oh, boy.  Received word that she wanted to talk to him, refusing to leave until she did.    

She’d seen him, was shifting to sit up further.  He waved her back and jogged the last few paces.

“What’s up,” he asked, thinking of nothing better.

“Well, what happened!” she demanded in a hiss.  “Nobody’s telling me anything.”

“Oh,” Relief.  “They got the guy,” he smiled thinking the one she ‘took down.’  “…and recovered your bag.”

“Huh,” she nodded.  “Excuse me,” politely to the EMT nearest, “could we have a minute?”  The guy shrugged and huffed off.  She rolled her eyes. 

He continued quietly.  “Someone with DOD has your bag.  They’ll want you to check the contents.”

“Yeah,” she seemed distracted.  Then, “What else happened?”  He drew back a bit.  She watched his face.  Yep, there it was, the eyebrows knitting.

“You’d be a terrible gambler, you know that?” she asked.

“What?” shaking his head.  He'd heard it before.

“You’re full of tells.”  Now that she could focus a little better she’d decided to try staring him down.  Bad idea.  In response he’d shifted closer, fuzzed out, her stomach lurched and she had to close her eyes.

“What do you know, Cedar?” tense whisper,leaning down, his hands on the rail of the stretcher.  “…and by the way, what got in to you?  Why in hell’d you tackle that guy?!”

She mustered a look and challenged “You first.”

He tilted his head away from her, muttering under his breath.  He looked down the street.  Really annoyed? Annoyed? Mildly annoyed?  Then blue eyes back on her.

“They went for DeFries at the same time.” Stopped to gauge her reaction, coming into focus.

“He’s OK.” she stated.  Now Steve looked up again, studying the buildings? The sky?

“Yeah… that’s not exactly how I’d put it.” Face serious.

“Whadd’a you mean?” she asked.

“He rolled right over.  The whole team – two teams actually, overheard it.  Three guys trapped him on a landing in a stairwell.  We had teams right there; one on the landing above, one just below.  He was never even in danger.” She was nodding.

“They asked if he was the Bill DeFries who did the Crypto-Genetics paper.” He paused, face starting to itch a bit with coming shame.

“And!” Cedar prompted.

“He says something like ‘Yes, but I think it’s Dr.Wexler you’re looking for.  It’s her research that’s borne out the potential usefulness…” he stopped because he realized he’d dropped into mimicking the DeFries' pompous vibe. 

Cedar’s mouth was a wide O, jaw dropped.  “What?!!” she shouted, throwing up her hands.

“Cedar, I’m sorry, I'm sorry. Look, I shouldn’t have…” he began.

She stared back at him, widely dilated eyes making her look a little less than sane.  Dropped her hands back into her lap.

“He gave me credit?!” she demanded, half shouting, half declaring; to him, to no one.  “Bastard finally gives me some credit and…”  Two EMTs, all frowns, were hurrying over.

“Hey, hey” Steve took a hand in his. “Easy does it, OK? You need to….” Interrupted by the EMTs.

“Sir, I’m sorry but her BP and heart rate are already …”

“Oh, my heart rate's always high!  I told you that.” she said, swatting at the EMT but leaning back anyway.  “I’m fine. I’m good.  One more minute, OK?!  Is Stephen even over there yet?”  She was shoo-ing them off, but he saw a grimace of pain as she settled back.  He softened his grip. 

“Did they have guns?”  The question surprised him, then a bulb went off.

“No. No guns.”

“Huh.” The pause filled, slow, like water filling a footprint in saturated ground.

“Yeah, it’s almost like I had it backwards this whole time.”  Suddenly there was either a question or an accusation in his voice.  She kept her eyes closed.

“Why’d you go after that guy?  What’s on your computer, Cedar?”  His voice soft.  Her eyes blinked open.

“That’s not…” she started then stopped, closed them again, getting tired, the light too bright, the street too loud.

“It’s not that.  There’s nothing I can think of in that bag or on that computer.” She sighed.  “He made me mad.” She started.  Heard a noise, close, a laugh?

“And you are one of those women who chases purse snatchers, yeah?” Such a nice voice, so close.

“Caught.” She clarified, smiling.  “Caught a purse snatcher.” He squeezed her hand.  She risked a look, guessing he’d be frowning or shaking his head. 

But he was staring at her, serious. His look asking for her to go on.

“Well, I got so close that he threw it back at me.” She continued, knowing that’s not what he wanted.  Bit of a grin but eyes still urging her back on topic.

“Oh, OK.” She blew out a breath.  “He said he’d shoot Blondie.”  She admitted.

“Blondie!?”  A half laugh, half question.

“Yes.  You, dummy.  He said he’d seen us in the square and that he’d shoot you if I didn’t come with him.” He straightened up, frowning now.  “I knew you’d gone around in front of us.  After he got the bag and was running off, I could see you on the other side of the turnstile.  He was reaching around behind him Steve, to his waistband, he had a gun under his jacket.”  She was urging him to understand.

“Cedar,” he began, then stopped.  “Well, I guess this backfired.”

“What? How do you mean?”

“Me. Being conspicuous was supposed to keep you safer.”

“Well, I am safe” she protested, starting to try and sit up again.

“You’re concussed,” his hands now light on her shoulders, guiding her back.

“But I’m not shot or kidnapped! You have people in custody…” still protesting, but letting him take her weight.

“Look, you need to get to the hospital.” Now he was motioning to the EMTs.

“Steve, wait.” She was settling back though, letting the EMTs adjust the stretcher to recline, prepare to load her into the ambulance.

“Yeah?” he asked across the woman with the radio.

“My card…” she began.  “You asked for my card.  Did you have another question?  Is there some follow up or something?” 

The woman with the radio stepped into the ambulance.  Moment of truth.

He stepped close, leaned down and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, soft, gentle.  His eyes bright at her surprise.

“Nope,” he grinned.

“I just wanted your phone number.”

 

 


	2. Post-OP

“So” said a voice in his ear.  “Guess I know why you turned off coms.”

“Hi, Nat.” He sighed, thinking he might be blushing, annoyed at the thought.  He'd only just turned from watching them put Cedar into the ambulance, red coat, navy skirt, brown boots disappearing.

The feel of her soft cheek was still vivid.  Her skin, tinted with freckles, smooth, soft.  Could skin feel creamy?  Whipped cream.  An intact memory of a Christmas morning, pancakes and real cream, whipped with sugar in a cold metal bowl.  Hot pancakes and cool sweet cream melting in his mouth.  

“Steve!” Natasha, loud.

“Yes! Yes, yes. I’m right here Nat!” Now he sounded cross.  Looked around.

“Right where? Your three streets past the entrance.” She insisted.

He looked at the corner.  Damn.  Wait…“Hey – how do you know where I am?” 

A sigh in his ear.  “Steve,” trying to muster some patience.  “Do you have a phone in your pocket?”


	3. "Man Up," Captain - A plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't hide Captain America in plain site, so what's the story?

**"Man-Up," Captain - A Plan**

Any time now.  He’d been watching the sun advance slightly to the left each morning as it came up over the last week.  It seemed more obvious this time of year, how the sun moved sideways along the horizon.  He guessed it was just being out this early and just sitting, not the usual run, just sitting in the same place days in a row, nothing much to watch but the sun coming up and the neighborhood waking.  He took the lid off his cup and looked to the bottom.  Time for a refill.  He stood, huffed into chilly hands, stomped his feet, mostly for show, folded, then tucked the newspaper under his left arm.  An unexpected crackle, as he’d started to move, made him wonder if his knees needed oiling.  Shook his head slightly.  Never enough sleep.  Definitely needed more coffee.

“On coms.” He muttered like a ventriloquist.

“Morning, Stevo!” Natasha was cheery. 

“Rogers.” He joked.  This.  Every time, the same joke. 

“Soooooo.  Asset is requesting contact.”  It wasn’t a question but her pitch went up at the end of the phrase.

"Something wrong?" He asked.

"Didn't say. Just wanted to speak to you in person."

Weird.  Or was it?  This was far from their usual op.  

“Want to arrange a meet?” Nat offered, “Or just do it in the open?  You aren’t exactly hiding.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right.” He faked a cough for cover, turned his head.  “Might as well take care of this now.  There’s this bench at the southeast corner of the square, about 200 yards from the coffee kiosk she visits every morning.”

“OK, I’ll tell her.  She wanted to know if she should initiate.” 

Ironic, awkward.  He could feel Natasha's smile across the airwaves.  He shook his head. 

“Steve?”

“Alright.” he sighed.  

"No," she continued. "I told her you would. That you needed the practice."

He could practically hear her grin.

 

Twenty minutes later, right on schedule, she was buying coffee, shifting cash from her bag.  A quick chat with the barista and she was walking his way.  From behind the paper he surveyed the square.  No one unusual.   He’d gotten used to seeing her from a distance, the way she moved, posture erect, quick pace but not quite hurrying.  She was approaching. Close now. He'd deliberately spread out the paper across the bench, undeniably rude in New York, but his best idea.  This kind of strategy so much harder.

She paused, “You mind?” indicating the bench. 

Only half looking up, “Oh, Geez.  No, sorry.”  Scooping up some of the papers, making room.

“Thanks.” She replied, not making eye contact.  She put her bag and purse down between them, swept a hand under her to tuck her coat, and sat.  He looked at her now, out of the corner of his eye.  Bright red coat, as usual, and cheeks rouged by the cold.  He’d actually hardly ever seen her up close, in the light; just that dim evening in the auditorium. What now? Come on...

 

He slapped the back of his hand against the paper, a slap of frustration, typical New York - a big, loud gesture.  And backfire. She startled - a huge startle.  She'd jumped half turning to look at him and her coffee almost sloshed into her computer bag she was gripping the cup so hard. 

“Sorry!” he blurted, big hands around the cup to steady it.  She took a breath and looked up. Green flashing in the sun.

“Ummm, it’s OK.” She said straight into his eyes. “Guess I’m jumpy today.”  Nervous smile and she exhaled a cloud from parted lips. 

“Yeah,” he said, forgetting to let go.  Empty air.  Staring across the steam rising.  She glanced down at the cup, now gently taking back the coffee.

"Right." He nodded and carefully let go, sat straight.  “Well, it’s the weather.”  He declared picking the paper back up, eyes back to the print. 'The weather?' he cringed. Really?

“Yeah?” she said. Her tone full-throttle skeptical, like maybe she couldn’t believe it either.

“Yeah, well, that’s just what I was thinking when I, uh, startled you, and sorry…” He glanced back into the green, still studying him.

“No, I think that was pretty much me.” She responded. 

He shook his head at the paper.  “So, they’re saying rain, maybe even some sleet by end of day.” Nodding toward the open paper then letting it crumple into his lap.  “I was just going to say, ‘I need a bookie.’” Her eyes crinkled and the edges of her mouth tilted down. He looked away.

“A bookie?” She aksed.  “Can’t help you.” He heard her take a sip of coffee. She was trying to play along.

“Yeah, well.  Do people even bet on the weather?" He ventured. "‘Cause it’s a beautiful morning.  Fog’s already burned off.  I sit out here,” he paused, looking for a narrative.  Squeezed his eyes closed.   “...most days.” Now actually trying not to laugh at himself, rolled up the paper and started pointing around with it.  “All these past few mornings, mostly same as this one and its beautiful, all day long.  I wouldn’t bet on sleet.”  He finally stopped.  This was awful.  How did people do this? Small talk. How were you supposed to get to the point?

“Well,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.  “I don’t think you want a bookie.  Don’t believe in gambling myself, but that’s not why.”  Another sip.  She looked up, then around the square, squinted into the sun over the river, eyes catching the light, holding it there.  Green, again. Like a green flash. Wasn't that something? Some weather phenomenon he'd heard of - sun rise or was it sun set over the ocean and a green flash.

“... lots of variables,” she was saying.  “And you’d better believe people bet on it, I'll tell you what…” she paused, shifting her body to face him.  “I’ll wager on rain today, at least by dusk…maybe even sleet.”

 

 

He stretched his arm across the back of the bench between them, securing the space, then, as if continuing the conversation, began “So, now that that’s over with how about I stop embarrassing myself?  Wanna tell me what’s up?"

She smiled down into her coffee, “Wow. Don’t be so hard on yourself.  I guess this is a little weird but... here’s the thing.  I got a phone call last night…” she stopped as he shifted, scooting a little closer, putting down the rolled the papers between them and touching a spot behind his ear, nodding for her to go on.

“Uh, my neighbor Marissa, she’s a friend, daughter of the guy who owns the restaurant and coffee bar, the gelato place down at the other end.”  She was gesturing and pointing with her coffee cup.  His eyes following the cup now came back to the pavement, trying to tilt his head so Natasha would be sure to hear, finding himself looking at feet.  Smallish, or medium sized.  She wasn't wearing boots today.  “Whole family works around here.  Kind of adopted me."  She was saying.  The shoes had a familiar style, a throwback, something familiar a strap across the foot, buckle on the side, the name Mary Jane in his head, and he was noticing the way her stockings darkened at the ankle, faded as they stretched up her leg, thinning to grey around the curve of her calf.

"...called to tell me she’s worried, and well, her family too.”  He frowned, trying to find somewhere else for his eyes. "See, it seems there’s this strange man who they think might be stalking me.”  His attention caught.

“How long’s that been going on?" He asked.  "This man?”  She looked at him, paused.

He looked deeper into the green saw the corners of her mouth twitch just before she raised her eyebrows.  

“Oh." He sat back, chuckling. "So this guy”.  “He about 6’2? Maybe - mid-30s? Wear a leather jacket?”

“Sits on this very bench mornings, and sometimes in that café’ over there late afternoons.” She nodded.

“Pretends to read?” he confirmed, his own smile coming slow, “but it’s almost like," It was almost like he was enjoying this. "Almost like he’s…” paused for effect.  Risked staring into her eyes.  “Watching you.”

“Great looking, though.” She quipped. 

Felt the blush.

 

Nat was laughing in his ear but her laugh was ricocheting around inside him. Her eyes, catching light were a color he couldn’t define.  The red coat, turned up against her cheeks, set them off, the light trapped there.  This was making sense, all the people she chatted with every day, the kids who showed her papers from backpacks in the afternoons.  How it seemed like it took her two hours to shop at a bodega 20 feet across.

“OK, OK." now laughing too, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled, nodding, he looking away from her. “Cut it out, Nat” he said aloud.

“Oh, so you do have someone in your ear.” She asked, taking a breath and a gulp of coffee.

“Oh yeah, and way worse than just those voices in your head, this one. But OK, this is OK.” Repeating.  “This is great.  This is fine.” sitting back and stretching out his arm across the bench again, crossing an ankle over his knee smiling, relaxed.  “No, this is great.  You’ve already got people looking out for you. That’s great.”  

“The point was me being visible. Well, that worked.” He smiled, nodding at her.

“Mmm hmmm” she was swallowing coffee.  “But what do I tell them?” she asked.  Watched his eyebrows knit, then went on. “I mean, I almost started to say, ‘Hey, no worries that’s just…” she shrugged. “…these people looking out for me because of…” and she made a rolling motion with her hand, as if to say ‘how do you spin this out?’

He was shaking his head now.  “Yeah, no. That’s not safest for…anyone.  They don’t need to know.” 

She nodded.  “Exactly, less they know, the better." Nodding firmly, "I don’t want anyone here…” she stopped.  It was occurring to her for the first time.  Eyes got a little wider.  He saw her body stiffen a bit.  Could almost hear the ‘in danger’ echo in her head, her eyes roving the plaza.

He tapped the shoulder of her coat lightly.  She swallowed and directed her gaze back to him. 

“We’re not gonna let that happen, right.”  Soft tone, encouraging but firm.  

She nodded. Looked away, then back. 

“Right - what _do_ we do here?”  He was asking, himself, her, Natasha.  “Wasn’t counting on great neighbors."

“Well,” she announced.  “Marissa thinks he should ‘man up’ and ask me out.” Now she was fighting a blush, staring at her coffee lid.  “I told her he sounded too young for me and…”

“Oh! Man-up, huh?  Oh, OK, so that’s the way it is then. OK. OK.” elbows back on his knees, studying his knuckles, chuckling.  She was staring when he looked up at her. “Yeah, That might work.”


	4. Weapons Expert?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward, "fake date" with an asset he's tasked with protecting.

WEAPONS EXPERT?

 

“You don’t really strike me as a weapons expert.”

She swallowed and coughed.  “Oh yeah?” 

“No. I just.” He backed his tone down a bit, awkward, "No, I mean I..." stabbed at his salad, the fork feeling small in his hand. 

“ ‘Cause I’m not.”  She said, deciding on rescue.

He’d looked back up then.  “Oh, OK. Well, your bio…”

“I work, occasionally,” she clarified, watching him closely, “with the weapons division of the Defense Department.”

He looked across the table, into the silence.  “Well, that clears it up.” 

She smiled, popped a garlic bread bite into her mouth.  “So what is it you were imagining me doing in the weapons division at the DOD?” she asked casually.

“That’s what I can’t figure,” he went back to pushing around the salad, then stabbing a cherry tomato.  “I mean, you teach Biology at the University, and the weapons division...” He was frowned shaking his head.

“OH! God, no! Steve?” she spewed accusingly, nearly spitting bread-stick, causing him to look up.  “OK, OK, I see how you could read it that way but, Jesus, I’d never… no.”  She wiped her hands. Now he was back to shoving around his salad. He looked uncomfortable in the cafe chair, in his button down shirt. She sighed, popped another bread-stick bite. 'Lighten up' she thought.

“I was once asked to consult on the feasibility of weaponizing poison ivy.”  She offered in a neutral tone.

He looked up to see if she was joking.  The candle flicker played on her face, shadowing her eyes, dancing across her skin.    

She raised her glass and her eyebrows.  “For real.”  He kept staring so she went on.  “Urushiol, the oil from poison ivy, oak, sumac, causes a blistering rash, discomfort and can interfere with sleep, concentration.”  She explained.

“Yeah, I’ve had it.  In Germany.” Still watching her.  “Its awful stuff. This one guy, got it in his eyes.”  

“Yeah, it can be pretty debilitating, especially if you formulate it in a concentrated dose.”  She downed the last of her wine, cheeks coloring. “But almost 90% non-lethal.” She added, sitting down the glass, gaze holding his.

He inclined his head, raised his fork.  “Touché,” and went after another tomato.

 

 

He’d been right, she did seem to know lots of people, diners and wait staff.  they all stopped by, saying hello, giving him a look. The owner had come over when their entrée arrived, bringing a bottle of red, ‘on the house.’  After a brief exchange in some halting Italian and a kiss on each cheek, ‘Sandro had left them. 

“What a sweetie.” Shaking her head after him.  “Papa ‘Sandro.”  She looked at the bottle.  Eyes on him.

'Oh!' He looked at the bottle awkwardly. Trying to smile, probably a grimace.  He was no good at this. This was why he avoided dating, fake or not.

“Just pour some in your glass and wait a few minutes, swirl it around.  Be sure to sniff before you drink it.” Technical, calm, careful instruction, no shame.

“Right, ‘cause see, I do this all the time.” Loosen up, man.

“Well, you look right at home.  Just keep smiling because they’re watching… and deep inhale.” She smiled.

“And why am I doing this?” trying to execute a swirl in the glass.

“Oh, to oxygenate the wine a bit.  Red only though, not white.  Then you smell it to give your brain a hint about what’s coming.  About 60% of tasting is actually smelling.”  She explained.

He inhaled, but a different scent came to mind, rising out of her warm coat as he’d helped her out of it an hour ago.  Heady memory; staring down at the back of her neck.  Then the wine hit.

“Huh,” he held out the glass, studying the color in the candle light.

“Smiling” she said again.

He smiled into the glass, inhaled again and drank.  Maybe the first time ever he’d really tasted something in wine.  “That’s good.”  She smiled all the way up into her eyes, face glowing.

“Yeah?  Glad you like it.  Don’t drink much red?  Wait’ll you have it with that sausage.  ‘Sandro knows how to do a pairing.  Now, pour a bit more in my glass.” Reaching across the printed vinyl cloth, he tilted the bottle and, “Whoa! Whoa!” she held her hand over the top.  Giggled.

“Sorry.” He glanced up, gritting his teeth, carving out his strong jawline.

“No, no, no problem” she shook her head, still grinning, and “No trouble.  They’ll just all think you’re trying to get me drunk,” a smirk down at the table cloth. Then looking at him “…and don’t pour yourself any more than that.  You really don’t drink much wine do you?”

He sighed toward the glass.  So much to explain.

 

Toward the end of the entrée conversation lagged.  They’d been talking and talking as the restaurant emptied.  How long had they been there? 

“So what do you do with DOD?" He surprised himself by asking. 

“Weellll” she drew out the word, swirling wine in her glass.  “I could tell you but…” her smile was a little lopsided now, eyes shiny - relaxed.

“Right, right.  Then you’d have to kill me, got it.” He said, envying that boozy relaxed people got from alcohol.  A little ashamed at himself for the thought.

“No really, I thought they would’ve” she was waving a hand like she was trying to invoke a word, “briefed you all or something.”

“Nope.” He said.

“Huh, I guess I think that’s odd.” she returned.

“Guess whoever makes that call thinks it’s only ‘need-to-know’.”  He explained.

“But doesn’t that bother you?” She was leaning forward now onto the leg crossed under the table, studying his face .  Not enough neckline.

“Not really.” Words caught in his throat.  “Well sometimes.  When you find out, after the fact, that what someone decided not to tell you really would’ve been helpful.”

“Yeah! I couldn’t stand that.” She declared.  “I’m just so…curious I guess, about, well... I couldn’t stand it.”  Gesturing big.

He could see it, believe it.  Wondered what she did in the spare time when she wasn’t ‘his watch.’  What was her apartment like?  Books, he imagined.  Bet she was a reader.  Did she like movies? Was she an outdoor type?  Was it OK to ask?

“But I guess,” she was going on, unaware of his musing.  “Maybe if you know too much, if there are too many variables, then it’s too hard to make quick decisions?”  She was really asking, curious about his world.  Actually waiting for an answer.

“Well, uh, yes and no.”  How do you answer questions like this?  Explain things that are instinct?  “You want all the –intelligence you can get, but, of course, you rarely even get what you need.”  It was tough to explain, but she was nodding.  “Most of the time you take stock of what you’ve got, just assuming some of it’s gonna be wrong, or at least flawed.  You have to go in knowing that you’ll have to change the plan.  You’ll have to adapt at best and just…improvise, at worst.”  Tried a swig of the wine remaining in his glass. 

She was nodding, watching his hands move along the table like he was tracing a map.  She smiled as Lucia cleared the table.  Then, all of a sudden, her face went still and she closed her eyes.

“Improvise.”  She let out a slow breath.  Took a sip of water.  “I used to love that word.  It’s actually from Italian – to sing or speak poetry.” She was kneading her napkin in her lap.  What was this?  “Now all I can think of is IEDs.” He watched her face.  “That’s what I do with DOD.”  Her tone was lower now even though no one was sitting nearby.  “Kind of a sniffer dog.”

Wait, where was this coming from? How did this connect?  Biology? Curiosity?

“God!  I’m sorry.” She put her napkin on the table.  A waiter was approaching with a bottle.  “Bourbon?  I need one.  Oh, right.”

 

 

“So a dowser?”  He couldn’t grasp it. 

“Yep, that’s the ‘folk’ term, Appalachian term, what I heard growing up.”

“But I didn’t think stuff like that was real – like snake oil salesmen and, charlatans.” His tone was open, but skeptical.  He was willing to believe, just struggling.  She helped them look for unexploded ordnance, in the ground, in harbors, could see things; old stuff, or shiny new.

The wine had now carried away the horrors of IEDs and she was back again.

“Charlatans…I like that, and gypsies too.  No actually… as you can imagine, I’ve done a fair amount of research on this,” tone a bit self-mocking.  “There’s evidence across cultures and throughout history of people who claim to, and actually seem to have been able to find things – mostly water, underground, or in other geologic formations.  Big oil speculators.”  He shook his head.

“But that’s amazing.”  Looked at her, struck again by the candle light caught in her hair, in those eyes.  “What’s it like?” all he could think of to say.

“I guess,” she began.  “Well, I usually use seeing as the best analogy, but it’s not like seeing at all.  I can’t close my eyes and shut it off.  It’s just another thing I’m perceiving all the time.  I can tell you where the pipes are in the building, and under it, and the wiring, I’ve trained myself to recognize what it’s made of.”

“So how did this happen” getting easier now, thinking of his own experience.  “Always been like this or did something…” ‘trigger it.’ Thinking to himself, the choice he’d made, the pain and the brightness - transformation.  But she was shaking her head, swirling the last the dinner wine.

“Born this way, far as I can tell.  Never known otherwise.  First story I know about, I was four.  Evidently I used to play in this one spot outside, near the corner of the house, my dad’s home place, where we grew up.  I called it “the water.”  I would say I was going to go play in the water, or wanted to go play in the water.  Finally one day, mom got a wild hare or something, I think, finally _got it_ somehow.  She talked my older brothers, twins, into getting shovels and the mattock, told them we were gonna dig for buried treasure.”  She slowed down.  “Just a couple feet down they hit old boards, rotting.” Sighed.  “Boys got all excited. My one brother, Matthew, took the mattock to them.” Face losing light. “It was an old cistern.  He fell through.”  Full pause, eyes closed.  “He nearly drown.  They were 9.” 

“Damn!” she cursed. “Sorry!” Gulping the last of the wine and picking up the bourbon, trying on a smile. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s, it’s amazing” wanting so badly to bring back the light, jostle away the bad memory.  “But…you said other people in history?”

“Jacob found wells for his people, right?” she shrugged. “It’s in the Bible, that encounter with the angel…must’a counted for something.”  Gulped bourbon again.  Breathed in deep, rolled her shoulders back, executing a phase change.

“Way I see it, reason I use sight as a metaphor… some people are color blind, right?” back to instructor mode.  He nodded.  “Most of us can see color but some people… Oh! Wait, you were in the army right?!” announcing not asking, getting more animated. Pointed at him.  “So say,” looking around, “what’s the biggest grouping in the army? Not like a platoon, but bigger a…” prompting.

“Brigade? Battalion?” he offered.

“OK, yeah. Whichever’s bigger.”

“Brigade can be up to 2000 people.” Confirming.  Warming into her excitement.

“OK, perfect.  So, in this brigade you might have one guy, or gal, who can see, better than anyone else say… at night, or someone who can smell smoke, or gasoline, or whatever, hear tanks or trucks, way before anyone else.” Steve was nodding now, full memory.

“Yep, this guy in the Howling Commandos, Gabe.  His vision, at night, daytime too, it was amazing.”  He was staring back into the past, his eyes lost, she watched the face. Another sip, quick. Good bourbon.  “I could never decide if it was just, acuity?  Vision beyond 20x20, if that’s a thing, or if he was just better at detecting motion, or…” looked back at her, present again.

“Yes, that’s it exactly” she was hurrying on.  “And yeah, vision can be better than 20x20, that’s the thing.  I’m just an extension, way I see it, an extension beyond normal perception.”  Her hands in the air miming a line, or an arc like a rainbow, indicating a spectrum.

“Quite an extension.” He shook his head, smiling.  

OK, more bourbon. Another sip - 'play date, play date.' Trying to instruct herself.

“So water and metals?” He asked.

“Yep," nodding. "Oil.” Shook her head, rolled her eyes.  “Long story, that.”

“I like your stories.”  Popped out, warm voice, she flushed.  He noticed, but waded in further, didn’t care. “Longer the better.” Just wishing that bourbon would work for him.

She grabbed hers - again.  Wanted to put the cool glass against her face. “Minerals, ores, coal’s harder, so organic I guess.”  Started to buzz, breathe a little.  Relax, Cedar.

He let the pause roll out.  Watched her find her breath.  Then, IED’s, he remembered, thought of wires.  Interesting, but how to ask…

“So, fine detail too, then.”  He took a sip of water.

“Sweetie,” The endearment shocked him, but she was smiling now, all that mattered. Suddenly looked a little sleepy, eyes sparkly but focused right on his face, gestured with the glass, continuing.  “Detail? Hell yes. I can count the teeth on your zipper.”

He couldn’t swallow the water.  She blanched, put down the bourbon. Pause.

A moment.  “On your jacket.” She was saying through clenched teeth, but not suppressing the smile, pointing over her shoulder to indicate the coat rack, “Zipper on your jacket, right?” play acting at covering the faux pas, teasing but also covering her eyes with her the back of her hand.

“Check please?” She stifling a giggle.

 


	5. The Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More drama on the first "fake date" and maybe the promise...encora baccio?

THE GAUNTLET

The evening was ending too soon. He’d been hoping to sit through dessert, stretch it out at least another half hour. What was that about? She’d gone dark after the zipper comment. He’d settled up; argued appropriately about the bottle, accepted graciously. A wink from ‘Sandro, then was helping her into her coat again. One arm in, threading the other through a sleeve then sweeping her hair out of the way as he was lifting her coat. Another view down her neck, the delicate knobs of her spine.  They walked out into the cold air.

  
“Well,” she announced. “Bracing out here.” Digging her hands into pockets for gloves.

‘Yeah,’ he thought, felt slapped as the cold woke him. Jammed his own hands into jacket pockets. Reproach. He’d lost the whole evening. He wasn’t doing his job. Had he even checked the restaurant?  Of course he had. He’d been watching everyone all night, registering faces, the level of interest anyone seemed to have in them, in her. But he’d lost himself, enjoyed it too much. What? The conversation? Her company? Yes. Was that all bad? It couldn’t be good. Right? 

  
“Steve.” She was saying.

  
“Sorry, what?” 

  
“The gauntlet?” she was saying it again. “One more stop in running the neighborhood gauntlet?” The cold had cleared her up, eyes bright again, but questioning. She inclined her head toward the opposite end of the square. “I know it’s 48 degrees but, gelato?”

  
Almost 9:00 now, nobody at the tiny ice cream shop. He could just see one guy behind the counter. She put a gloved hand on his arm as he reached for the door. “OK,” bit her lip, looking into the shop, then at him. “This could be a little rough.” Scrunched up her face, smiled and nodded for him to open the door.

  
The young guy at the counter looked up from his phone at the jingle of the bell, did a double-take then let lose in Italian, including a “Ciao Bella!” to Cedar at some point. At all the noise another guy, about the same age, appeared from the back, another double-take, and another flood of language. Cedar was nodding, gesturing, throwing in a word here and there, rolling her eyes, then finally…

  
“Guys, guys. English, English or slower! Or both,”holding up her hands, laughing. “Please.”

  
“So this is not your brother?” the counter guy asked in perfectly unaccented English.

  
“No, Tommaso. This is Steve Rogers. I mean, Captain Rogers.”

  
“Steve.” He smiled at the guy.

  
“Steve,” introducing them “Tommaso, and Gaetano,” indicating the second guy who lifted his chin to Steve, a bit more appraising. Steve nodded.

  
“Encore’ Baccio?” Gaetano said; straight at Cedar, lifting his eyebrows and raising the scoop. Full on flirting, that, whatever it was he said.

  
“You know me well, my friend. But just un piccolo baccio.” flirting right back. Well, crap.

  
She turned back to Steve now, cheeks pink again with cold. “What’ll you have?”

Well not Encore’ Baccio, that was for sure. Fronting through the disappointment though.  “Sweet cream?” Surveying the case, then back at her.

  
“Yeah, that’s delicious. The pistachio’s great too, of course.” She added, eyes back on the Gaetano guy. He winked at her. She went on “In the summer though, oh,” put her fingers to her lips and kissed. “What Gae can do with fresh fruit? Mmmmm. Ought to be against the law.” Sultry voice.

At that Gaetano blushed red and Tommaso slapped the freezer-top laughing.  “You get him. You always get him, bella!”

  
OK, whatever. He was looking around, scanning. Pictures of kids taped to the side of the register. Wedding rings on both their fingers.

 

 

Outside he ventured, “Friendly guys.” Giving her a look.

  
“Yeah, they tease me like a sister. It’s sweet.”

  
“That one guy’s a little more than sweet.” He observed; walking toward her building now.

  
“What? You think I can’t take care of myself?” Eyebrows up. Flirting?

  
“Supposed to be watchin’ out for you, right?” Retorted, teasing. Geez! Keep it together man!

  
Sigh. “Gaetano. He’d like to think he’s a lady’s man.” She was shaking her head. “But he’s wrapped around Vanina’s little finger.”

  
“So what’s encore…” He didn’t want to risk slaughtering the word, so he gestured with his cone toward hers.

  
“Oh, yeah. Uh, it’s chocolate hazelnut.” She dodged. Took a guilty bite.

  
“Uh, huh.” He nodded. “So which is the word for chocolate,” shot her a sideways look. “In Italian?”

  
She laughed. “OK, the flavor…” accenting the word, “is chocolate hazelnut. The _name_ of the flavor is Encore’ Baccio, which means” tiny pause, “another kiss.” “You know, even better than just one kiss.” Bit into the cone again, eyes scooting away.


	6. Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was the asset fathered by an angel?

An Angel?

“Well, there was this one story. I never heard it till much later – still too early of course, that damned Mrs. Lamb told me when I was 14.”  
Second fake date but she wasn’t faking. He was too easy to talk to, too willing to listen, too curious for his own good. She couldn’t help it, kept talking. “What I found out” sighed. Tried starting again. “Apparently there was a period of time when my mom and dad weren’t living together.”

  
Watching her face, she was in that place again, wherever it was she went when she was thinking about home. North Carolina, the mountains. He was wondering what it was like, growing up in a green place. Trying to focus on the words, not just her voice, the sound, her breathing.

  
“Several months, it sounded like; just left the boys with dad. Never said why. And then mom has this story. Evidently she told her sister and her best friend Marie.” She was out of breath, looking down, linen table cloth this time, textured, she was running a fingernail along the line of the pattern. Why was she even? “OK, best way to get this done is head first right?” Asking, looked up at him. “I mean, I don’t wade into cold water. That’s excruciating. Dive in, headfirst, all in, all the way.”

  
Nodded at her, wishing he could ease the tension lines in her forehead. “Sounds about right.” Almost reached across the table to take her hand, resting near her wineglass. Watch out, man. Stayed still, wondered at the impulse. Headfirst? In over his head?

  
“Right.” She hadn’t seemed to notice. “So it was summer, see. She was living in her old home place – bit rough, no insulation, bats could get in through the eves. She didn’t much care. Middle of August. The Pleiades and her family’s place wasn’t far from a bald called Max Patch.

  
“A bald?” he stopped her. “And the Pleiades, the stars?"

  
“Yeah. Uh, balds, OK. There…well, there are these bald spots on ridge lines or mountaintops throughout the Appalachians. Just like they sound. You ought’a see them.” Gazing back again. “Anyway, no trees, or just a few scrub trees, maybe four or five feet tall at most, all low vegetation, or just meadow. The Cherokee have wonderful legends about what created them.” This time appetizers were bits of asparagus wrapped in bacon.

  
“What did?” he asked, trying to imagine, to focus up, to compare with mountains he’d known.

  
She shrugged then reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. “No one knows really. Lots of theories.” She was fiddling with the phone then handed it to him. The screen was a photo of a panorama of sky and mountains taken over a wide meadow. It did remind him of places, Switzerland, Bavaria, but no snow.

  
“Max Patch?” he asked.

  
She nodded taking the phone and swiping and tapping again. “… and Pleiades, I meant the meteor shower, the yearly burst – mid-August, from the tail of the Swift-Tuttle comet.” Handing the phone back, a photo over the same meadow, streaks of light across the sky.

  
“Ok” wow.  He exclaimed.

 

 

“So this man…” Well into the entrée now.

“Figure. She always says ‘figure’” she clarified.

  
“Appears out of the stars?”

  
“What she says.” Poking fish into her mouth, clearly nervous.

  
“Like, walks out of the sky?” Looking at her perfectly serious face.

  
She put down her fork. Started working the napkin in her lap again. “She’s sitting against this rock, see. That’s not uncommon on balds, outcroppings. Sitting there so she has the maximum view – overhead and out across the valley. No ambient light. Imagine that Steve. Best sky-watching ever.” Eyes again, catching light.

  
“But then the… figure, could’ve walked up the hill opposite her and…” he was offering.

  
“But would’ve appeared to rise up out of the ground if so, right?” guiding him. “Head would appear first, then shoulders rising up. Not coming straight toward her.”

“Huh,” those brows again. But he was with her – envisioning.

  
“I’ve thought this through. I’ve been there.” Go ahead then, gathering herself for the jump. “So the upshot is…” now reciting, quoting her mom “ ‘A voice like music’ that she couldn’t understand but ‘full of meaning. A message, a messenger from God – he was the message.’ Here she does use the masculine pronoun, ‘a message of love from God, for her and the world.’” Pause “….aannddd they make love there on the bald under the meteor shower and months later…” She stopped, opening her eyes, not realizing she’d closed them, gesturing to herself. “Moi.”

“So you were fathered by an angel?”

  
“Or an alien.” She pointed upward with her fork.

“How’s that?” he asked.

  
“Research. You know…as you can imagine, I’ve done some…” swallowed another bite of fish. “…on alien abductions. There’s a lot out there. Interesting, maybe, that many of them profile out the same way. People out at night, unusual sounds, lights, ‘intimate encounters’ “...mimed probing with a finger. “and lost time.”

  
“Lost time?”

  
“Yeah.” Swig of wine. He’d noticed she was pacing herself this time. “Hours go by according to clocks and the people, the reportees, have no recollection. That’s a difference. Most people wake up in the same place or nearby, but like, hours later. Mom woke up, naked, in the bed at her home place, clothes on the floor. No idea – well, no memory, of how she got back there.”

  
“So this was some kind of mental….” He was searching.

  
“or emotional…” she offered, took another swig, speeding up.

  
“break, or something?”

  
Cedar shrugged.

  
“But you,” pausing “you don’t really think…” trying to be careful.

  
“You’ve seen aliens.” Looking at him, like an X-ray from those eyes.

  
“They were no messengers of love.” shot back. Little too hard. Sigh. You are not great at this, man.

  
She’d gone quiet. Focusing on her plate; skated a potato around in the melted butter. “Or she cooked up a crazy story to cover up cheating on my dad.” Looking back up at him. “Right? You’re thinking that. She wasn’t with him at the time.”

  
He nodded. “OK, yeah. Sure. It had occurred. Didn’t sound like a great marriage?”

  
“Nope, But I don’t think he beat her. Or was awful, or controlling or… I think he fell in love with her because she was pretty, and poor and kinda dreamy and he felt she needed protecting; needed a man.” She was getting agitated, gripping the edge of her place mat.

This time he did reach across – just pecked her fingertips with his – bringing her back.

  
She was leaning forward again. “It’s a tough place, up there, for girls, for women. My aunt came back after her fancy life in Atlanta and her big divorce, set up a business. Herbs, ointments, back to nature, all that. They called her a witch. That was 1985.”

  
“I’m sorry.” What else to say?

  
She sighed. “They’re backward, and sexist and racist, and I can say this because they are my people, they are superstitious. Most are bible believing Christians back all the way from over the water, but they have some wild stories of those mountains. Folk lore is deep – folk legends.” She was shaking her head. “No one can ever do enough research.”

He laughed a bit and she looked up. “Research?” he asked, shaking his head, confused.

  
“Story collecting” she clarified. “Qualitative research. Some of that’s been done but lots of people just won’t talk. Read some southern writers sometime, even contemporary ones. No wonder Faulkner called the south ‘Christ haunted.”

  
“Sounds like Ireland.” He offered.

  
“Well sure, many of those people who settled in the mountains have Celtic roots.”

  
“Irish in New York” gesturing toward himself. “Irish in Appalachia?” gesturing at her, swallowing.

“In Appalachia long before New York.” She nodded.

  
They ate in silence a few minutes, watching the fractals cast from the candle in the crystal globe dance on the table.

  
“You ever hear of the Nephilim?”

  
“Don’t think so.” 

“The giants mentioned in Genesis?”

  
He looked up to make sure he’d heard her right.

  
“Oh yeah,” smirk “Catholic - don’t exactly know your scripture. They’re there, look it up. So yeah, this race of Nephilim, referenced as giants, sons of God bred with the daughters-of-men; whatever that means. Some people in the mountains believe that Nephilim live in caves there, deep caves that go all the way through the earth to the holy land, or the Garden of Eden.”

  
Shaking his head, spearing the asparagus, frowning.

  
“Hey – the British cooked up the whole Joseph of Arimathea thing, bringing Jesus’ bones to Britain?! Just ask William Blake – or yikes! Brigham Young? The Angel Maroni and the golden tablets – declaring the United States the new Promised Land - and Mormons the new chosen people?”

  
“OK, OK, hang on,” now pointing with his fork. “Back to your mom. Speaking of stories, what’s that one with Zeus and the swan?”

  
“Yup! Of course, I’ve thought of that. She was totally into mythology too, and bible. So that has to be in her head right? It’s Leda and the Swan. Zeus sees her bathing, wants her, takes her… yeah, in the form of a swan. But there’s stories like this everywhere. God’s and mortals, usually mortal women.” Taking a breath. “Well, like our very own…” gesturing.

  
He looked confused.

  
“Mary! The Virgin Mary. That one. Now that’s no rape story…but neither was mom’s. Mary was God’s obedient girl. But, you see where I’m going with this?”

  
No, he really didn’t. “Uh, so you … do you think that’s what happened?” Asking carefully.

  
She deflated a bit. “Steve, I have no idea what happened. An unhappy woman, feeling alone. She tells a story that echoes familiar stories.”

  
“Well,” this was delicate. But he wanted to know. “What about after?” trying to move them forward, keep her talking.

  
Big sigh, trying to get calm. A slow sip of wine. “She went home. What else? Her father was living with the sister in Atlanta at the time. No other family.”

  
“Geez” shaking his head. That was bleak.

  
“Yep. Dad stamped out the rumors. Said he’d been visiting her. But it’s no wonder.”

  
“What’s no wonder?”

  
“Never got along. The boys. They look so much like him.” She was falling away, away into the sad place.

  
“Not you?”

  
“Like mom, only like mom.” Geez Cedar, here we go again. Lighten up. “Bit more interested in me when he figured out I could find oil though.” Toasting now with the last in her glass. “I was 11.” Tried for a smile.


	7. "Stupid Brain"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to persuade Cedar to be more than just an asset.

"Stupid Brain"

 

Concentrating had been hard. They’d told her it would be. She was more tired than she’d anticipated and finally decided to pack up. Her back was to her office door as she slipped her laptop in the recovered bag, a flashback pressure of the gun against her ribs, the rough hand gripping her arm. No wonder she was tired.  
Tiny knock? Again? The light had changed in the room, only slightly, but enough. She turned.  
“Wow.” She said.

“Uh, hi. Heard you were back.” He was standing in the partially open doorway, taking up most of it. Leather jacket, as always. Indicating Mildred in the main office.

“Hi.” Shook her head. “Everything OK? I didn’t’ expect to see you.”

  
“Oh, uh. Yeah. Just thought I’d check in. You OK?” Eyes shifting around the office.

  
“You could’ve called.” She zinged. He grimaced then smiled, cutting his eyes back to her.

  
“Yeah, about that.” Looking sheepish.  

She raised her eyebrows.

“No it was really unprofessional and I wanted to apologize...”

He was saying, but what was he doing? What was he doing here? Why not just never call?  And it popped out.  “So what are you doing here?”

  
He was abashed now. Standing stock still, pursed his lips.

Wow, hadn’t meant to say that. Gotta watch the muscle relaxers. “What I mean is…” she began. The ones that didn’t completely knock you out still pretty much relaxed everything, including your brain. Sigh, start over.  “Hey, sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. Still just a little…” indicating her head.

  
“Concussed. Yeah, heard there was kind of a dust-up at the hospital. Wanted to check on you, see if you were OK.” Stopped, trying to study her face. “And apologize,” hesitated, “in person. I wanted to see you.” 

  
Oh, boy. “So you're apologizing to me in person for asking for my phone number instead of calling?” Just being bothersome now, not even sure why. Trying to deflect his interest, watching his face.

  
Right back at her. “Seemed kind of stupid to call and apologize for asking for your phone number.” Giving as good as he got, added. “Thought I’d ‘man up’ and show up.”

  
Couldn’t he just quit!?  She'd been fine when he didn't call. Now this!  “OK, Just checking, but are we now pretending you didn’t ask for my phone number?” She cocked a hip and raised an eyebrow.

  
Big sigh. Hands cross over his chest, leaned against the door jamb, looked down, back up. Big smile, nodding. “So, you seem to be doing, OK.” Oh no. The same smile, same smile as when he’d touched her cheek.

  
“I’m good.” She turned back to the desk, packing up the power cord and papers. Felt like she should be fanning her face.

  
“You headed home?” tinge of something in his voice.

  
“Yep. Kinda wore myself out. Pretty normal the doctor said.” Her back still turned.

  
“Wanna grab a cup of coffee?”

  
Good grief. Not really? This could be tough. Sigh. Do it now, headfirst, rip the band-aid off. “Yeah, sure. That’d be a good idea.”

 

 

“So what happened at the hospital” He asked when they were out on the street, in step, walking to the coffee shop.

Oh. He’d been assuming that she didn’t want anyone overhearing in the office. Smart.  She didn’t, but “I think that’s probably need-to-know.” She answered, beginning to erect some barriers.

  
He was quiet a moment then. “Fair enough.”  Kept walking

 

“This is New York, Steve. You are sitting here in the middle of Columbia University. Do you know how many young, beautiful, smart, interesting women there are within just these 5 square miles?” She was gesturing with her coffee cup again.

  
“Not that interested in women” tone flat, looking out the window, secretly studying her reflection.

  
“Oh?” Where was this going? She was lost.

  
“Not in the generic sense, no.” Eyes back to her. DAMN. “Not as a category, Cedar.” Paused again.

Geez! Please don’t say…

  
“More like, a woman. A particular one…” loading his tone with meaning. Not gonna let her off easily. He was reaching across the table.

Scooped up her cup with the hand he was reaching for. Eyes away from his. “Well, you coulda’ said peculiar, at least that’s something.”

  
He sat back. “No, peculiar works too. That works just fine.” Trying to get her to look back at him. Not working. Tried again “Look, I’m not… I wasn’t. But you just came along and…” This was not working. “I wasn’t looking for a relationship.” Tried to relax, open up his chest, shoulders, breathe. Pressed himself against the back of the booth a bit to focus. “Kinda’ dismissed that really. But hey, I got a purpose. I have a really awesome shot right now, to make a difference. I’ve been given so much. I’m a part of this great team.” Rattling, rattling. Geez. Checking, was she even listening? “Then you turn up.” Well. Crap. Out of words.

  
Now she looked at him. Eyes. Face soft, he remembered, so soft… but saying “So, you see some possibilities. Right?” She offered quietly. “Explore those.” She was genuinely counseling him, but totally not getting it.

  
“No, no. Cedar.” Shook his head. “It’s not about possibilities. It’s you. It’s not something, generic, like I said.” GEEZ! Why was she making this so difficult? He shifted, leaning toward her again, over the table between them, looking right into her face. It was dumb, felt like how you instinctively raise your voice to a deaf person, like maybe getting closer, proximity, heads together, he could get his thoughts across. “Listen, besides being stunningly beautiful, you are really attractive – to me. You’re fun. You’re funny and fascinating. I love talking to you.” She was shaking her head, swirling her coffee like she did. Not getting it. “Cedar,” she’d looked away again.

  
Looking out the window, staring across the street. Kept it up with the coffee.

  
OK, strategy. Not fair but…“What is this, anyway?” Holding up his own cup, trying to tug her into focus. This gambit again. She couldn’t resist a question.

  
“What?” Turning to look at him. “It’s a latte’. You don’t like it?”

  
“Kinda sweet.” It’d worked, again, cheating, but at least she was back. Held it up, took a sip. Kept his eyes on hers.

  
“Well, you’re kinda sweet. But you are a bit misguided, see. I don’t know what you’re thinking. Steve. I’m not your project anymore.”  Strained on the swallow of his latte. Head pulled back a little, like she’d struck him. Serious frown. Ooops. She’d offended him? “Steve, no. Sorry. God, all I’m trying to say is time spent with me is wasted time. Time is precious.”

  
Frown still in place. “You’re actually gonna say that to me?” Eyes not exactly kind this time. Jaw line again, tight.

  
“Ok.” She stopped. “Well, there you go. It’s precious. Why waste it with me?”

  
“What’s wasting? Cedar,” Stopped, shaking his head, frustrated with not being able to get across to her. Shifted, tried again. “I said, I wasn’t looking for this.”  
She wasn’t understanding. This was important.  “As to you being ‘my project,’ I dealt with that already, ok? I had to. Talked myself through it six different ways when you were ‘my project.’ I started realizing I was, I am… attracted to you.” Frowning.

He was frustrated, angry? She closed her eyes. Geez. She wasn’t doing well here.

  
“Listen” calling her back. “I kept asking myself. Is this a problem? Am I doing my job? Arguing with myself, maybe I need to step away, conflict of interest or something. Then telling myself, ‘Hey, it’s been, well forever, since I’ve been around a woman like this and…perfectly natural, kind of a crush. Whatever.’ And each new tack worked for a while. But, it never went away. I do my job. But I’m still me. I can’t shake how I’m feeling about you, ok.” She was still looking at him, sort of. He went on.  
“I even talked to Sam about it, see what he thought. He told me you can’t separate the man from the mission. That it was ok, maybe I was gonna do a better job, actually, feeling this way; not distracted but more focused - myself in the mission. That’s the only way it works. Sam’s good about stuff like that.”

  
“Oh no, oh no.” she interrupted, putting her head in her hands. He stopped. “Oh no! Steve, stop. Now I have that song stuck in my head.” She heard a big sigh, kept going. “I mean, Michael Jackson. It’s a great sentiment and all but…”

  
“Cedar,” voice calm.

OK, better. Not angry.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but I know what you’re doing, I…"

Interrupted him again reciting, deadpan. “If you wanna make the world a better place, You gotta look in the mirror…” His look. Patient. He so had her number. She couldn’t go on.

  
“Like I was saying. I know you. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to distract and deflect. Good strategy. But not with me. I know you and, cute as you are…” grinned. “It won’t work. So, stop it.”

  
“Well, you stop it! ‘Cause if you don’t stop, it’s gonna work!” Blurted out. Stopped. Sighed. Sat her cup down. Sat back. Let out a breath. Why always fight? “Stupid brain’” out loud. Looked up at him. Puzzled, bit of a smile, spark of hope hiding in a dimple. But he didn’t get the reference.

  
“Don’t you know The Simpsons?” She felt her head pound.

  
Sat the latte down. Wrinkled up his nose, shook his head a bit. Eyes, all eyes, all over her face, straight into her. “Kinda going in order where I can. Haven’t gotten there yet.” Twitch of smile. “Did you just say…?”

  
“Going in order. Of course you are.” Shaking her head. “Stupid Brain’ is what Homer Simpson says when he accidentally says something out loud that he didn’t mean to … say out loud.” Letting her eyes close.

  
“Ah,”

“The muscle relaxers, see. I didn’t mean to say ... what I just said.” Put her hand on her temple, but she’d started smiling too.

  
“OK, no problem.” He sat back again, swirled his coffee. Geez, it was catching. “I won’t hold that against you. Stricken from the record. Wouldn’t take advantage of impaired judgement.”

  
“Very kind.” She sipped her coffee.

  
“Besides, I wasn’t gonna quit.”

  
She was smiling.

  
Thought to himself, ‘Quit? I could do this all day.’


	8. First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do after fake dates?

First Kiss

She’d practically jumped into his arms. Nearly always surprising him, this was by far the best. So much more than he could’ve hoped for.  All of a sudden his arms full of her; the red coat, the hair, the eyes and skin so close; the feel of her shape, her weight in his arms, falling against him. Worth every bit of the awkwardness.

  
He was still staring into the flames, nearly an hour now, playing and re-playing the scene, remembering his walk afterward. The fire had almost rewarmed his feet propped on the ottoman, the pillow he was holding somewhat the worse for wear at the corner where he’d been absentmindedly picking at a seam. It’d only been two hours but he wanted to phone her, hear her voice again, make sure it hadn’t been an illusion or a dream. Ridiculous. He looked around. Laying on the arm of the chair, her card - out for the first time since the transgression.  Shook his head at the irony.  He'd studied it and realized that, of course, it only had her office number on it, no home or cell.

  
They’d met at the zoo. Always wearing a dress or skirt, even in the cold. “These boots were made for walking!” She'd said indicating the brown leather seductively hugging her calves, and he had the feeling he was missing something. A familiar feeling. Couldn’t help but follow the line of chocolate stockings up to the hem of her dress. Was it purple? Had he asked? Oh, yeah. He closed his eyes.

  
“Well, eggplant, I guess.” She’d decided, reaching down and lifting the hem a bit to study the color.

It wasn’t that her dresses or skirts were short exactly. Eyes still closed - just short enough. The playback continued till the front door clicked and the clatter woke him from the flames.

 

 

She’d stripped off clothes and boots, washed her face, brushed teeth and hair and jumped under the duvet as soon as possible, trying to trap the warmth from him and savor it as long as possible. Guilty! Guilty. Guilty pleasure. Breathe. She drew in the cool air of her apartment through her nose. As long as it was above freezing she’d keep the window by her bed cracked open. The idea of “fresh air” in New York City seemed silly but she couldn’t shake the need to have a bit of the outside, inside with her. Breathe.

 

Laughing. They were on the stoop. Warm from the walk even in the cold.  “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun at the zoo.” He said as they started up the stairs.

  
“The zoo?” she put a finger to her chin. “Oh, the zoo! Right! What, that was only…” she mimed looking at a watch, just as he checked his. ""Six hours ago?!" Laughing.

“Yeah, those shops in the Bronx were fun too. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure.” He bowed at the waist. “Sorry, I doubted you…”

She nodded. “Pretty nice first date.” He was smiling.

  
“It didn’t feel like a first date, though.” she countered, starting to fish for her key.

  
“Funny thing, I was just about to say that.” He added, reaching the top step. “So what’s your opinion professor?”

  
Her opinion was that the stoop was too small. Proximity was always so hard. After 47 years she knew herself well and just let the desires wash over her, unchecked, acknowledged, but just noticing, not acting. She would’ve liked to put her palm against his face, let herself actually feel the line of his jaw. What was it about that with some men? The way their jawlines revealed so much; the tension or flexion of those bunching muscles, so small, but so telling. He was still looking at her, waiting.  
“About what? Exactly?” trying to retrace the conversation.

  
“Is this our first date or not? We’ve been out a few times but…circumstances…” he made that wavering motion with his hand as if evaluating, still playful.

  
“Well,” putting on her lecture tone, playing along. Stopped worrying with the key. “There are any number of ways to look at it, of course.”

  
“Go on.” He nodded.

  
She put her index finger to her chin, affecting a professorial air.  “A lens I often use in cases like this is – context versus content.” He was still nodding. “So the context of those two…”

“Three.” He interrupted.

  
“Oh, OK. Are we counting coffee that morning? Gelato?”

  
“I am.”

  
“OK, those three times – the context was… A ruse, a deception. We were acting like two people getting to know each other and … hanging out.”  
He was listening but looking down the street; wrinkling up his nose, half-frowning, shaking his head, as if considering but unconvinced. She went on quickly. “You were working – so right. In that context it couldn’t be a date.”

  
“Yep. But…” His eyes back on hers.

  
“The content…of those times – the stuff that was going on ‘inside’ of the context, if you will… was just like dating, right?” He’d shifted his stance, still leaning on the rail but slanting toward her now. He was still shaking his head, looking like a judge evaluating an argument.

  
“Your honor,” now switching to litigator, playing, play acting. Blue eyes smiled at her and she went on. “I submit to you, what happened during those hours – the talking, sharing stories, laughing, even getting to know each other… These activities are exactly what two people commencing a dating relationship often do. Am I correct?”

Now he nodded, shifting towards her further.  At that moment she realized how she was standing, hanging really - one foot on the bottom of the railing, one hand on the top, the other hand gesturing in space, pocketbook dangling. She must look like a ten year old. She rolled her eyes inwardly, but before she could gather herself back in, and right herself, he was reaching for the gesturing hand. He spread his big palm against her smaller one and interlaced his fingers, stepped closer and pulled their hands against his heart.

  
She got it. Froze.

  
“So my question is,” he started.

  
“Son-of-a…” she swore.

  
“Yeah, I know, I know. That was a cheap trick but, I’d like to kiss you goodnight. I mean, obviously, if this was our first date I wouldn’t even ask but...” She could almost hear the grin, feel its warmth against her turned cheek. “Your argument is pretty persuasive.”

  
“Steve,” she tried to sound exasperated, looked back at him. Mistake. His face was so close. She looked away again. That dizzying jaw line. “Today was great. I loved it, but I’m still 12 years older than you.”

  
“And I still don’t care.” He insisted. “…and that wasn’t exactly a ‘No...’”

  
She closed her eyes. Jerked them open again as the backs of his fingers brushed against her cheek.

  
“You remember that day at the ambulance?” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

  
“Yeah,” boy did she.

  
“I wanted to kiss you then.”

  
“My cheek?” she asked, half-knowing, half-stalling.

  
“Sure.” He said, tracing her cheek again. She couldn’t help it; quaked.

  
“Steve.” It was getting harder to muster the exasperation. “That’s not what I meant.”

  
“Me neither. I didn’t just want to kiss your cheek.”

  
She faced him full on trying to get control of herself, but now his thumb traced her bottom lip.

His lips were full and warm, slightly moist and so alive, the kiss so electric, she lingered three seconds, felt like plunging in further but instead sucked in a breath and hid her face against his neck.

  
After two beats and a deep breath she said. “OK, well. That wasn’t so bad.” Opening her eyes she realized that at some point her hand had moved onto his chest.

  
“Well,” he said quiet and close, a little breathless, his mouth near her ear. “Maybe you could grade me on a curve?” She could see the edge of the smile.

  
She looked up. “That’s not what I …” but his eyes, the blush of his lips, his concentration on her, took her breath again and she turned away. “Not what I meant.” Then thumped her head onto his chest.

  
“OK,” sounding bemused. “What did you mean?”

  
“Don’t laugh at me.” She retorted, trying to sound a little angry.

  
“Not laughing.” He stroked her hair.

  
“I just mean the world didn’t fall apart, or explode, or anything.” She said, sounded stupid, rolled her eyes at herself again.

  
“OK, true.” He stopped for a second, then “Did you want it to? Or did you not want it to ‘cause we could try again and...”

  
Now back up again and facing him. “Geez, you are so…” she stopped, seeing his face again the word ‘persuasive’ intruded into her head.

  
He read the change in her eyes and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. So cliché, but so damn intimate she gritted her teeth to keep from trembling. Was this really going to happen?

  
“So what’s the name of that flavor again?” He asked.  Eyes skipping around before coming back to hers. She smiled, exhaling. Not able to stop her grin. “You’re favorite, right?” He prompted, inviting her along. Had not been giving him enough credit, this one.

  
“You know.” She said, quiet, staying close to his face, aware of her hand still on his chest. Getting used to an idea she’d been keeping away. Letting it sidle up to her, join them on the porch.

  
“Yeah, but I’ll butcher it. Remind me, in Italian.” The invitation. Asking her to pronounce it. Sexy, damn it.

  
“Encora’ baccio.” She intoned, like a spell.

  
“Another kiss?” he repeated, asking, inviting. Eyes dipping to snag her gaze, checking in. Seeing the grin.

  
Why the hell not.

  
This time she let herself go, almost completely, literally falling toward him. His neck hot against her palm. She let her thumb follow that jawline. Warm lips, hands on her waist. He shifted her weight, pushing her slightly more upright. She was thinking the kiss was over and ‘too soon!’ rattled through her brain. His hand in her hair surprised her. His mouth on hers, pressing firm. Then a softer kiss. He was searching for something. Getting lightheaded, she opened her mouth and let the kiss deepen. He shifted them again, relaxing into her; still searching. She was losing everything, everything except the thought of how much closer she wanted to be.

  
What was she imagining? Her hand finding a belt loop, her free leg wrapping around his, tugging him, closing the distance between them? Nope! Couldn’t do it, but just the idea of being fully up against his body, even in all these clothes, of letting herself do exactly what she wanted and press herself up against him, evoked that distinctive lurch in her gut. Her insides tried to jump out, the leap as hard as a gut punch, pure animal, physical, desire. So strong she made a sound and a shiver went all the way through her.

  
“Cedar?” All concern as he pulled away, out of breath. She couldn’t look at him, tucked her face against his neck. He was unwinding his hand.  
“You OK?” genuine concern, now stroking her hair again.

  
“Yeah,” nodding against his neck. “You just, surprised me a little. That was…” What word? “intense.”

  
He kissed her forehead at her hairline. “I’m sorry, I…”

  
“OK, stop right there. Let me teach you a new one.” Shifting a little.  “It’s something the kids say. ‘Sorry, not sorry,’” raising her lips to his jaw, speaking just centimeters from his skin. The thing, the idea, the possibility she’d been keeping away now twining into their forms. “It’s what you say when you know you’re supposed to be sorry about something but you’re not really sorry.”

  
“Huh.” She could feel his smile at her hairline. “Good to know.” His mouth dipping to hers, speaking into the next kiss. “’Cause I’m not sorry.”


	9. Near Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling flat after the first date doesn't turn out so badly. Accidents, assumptions, and a near miss, or was it?

Near Miss

(or was it?)

Silent, sullen, exhausted. The mission had been a success, of a sort, uncovered a suspicious network, jammed up some bad guys. But Steve knew his mood was polluting the whole team, plush this shit was just weird. Superheroes undercover. The five of them, and all their gear being shuttled from the airfield back into the city in an armored truck. Plus the pain of missing Tony, and even Vision. That one was hurting Wanda and even he could see it.

  
Well, at least it would be warmer in the house, there would be groceries, someone had been there to cook a meal. Not exactly a “hero’s welcome” Fury had said but, best he could do, “considering.” And it was better inside, warm; something smelled delicious. Amazing how the promise of food could raise your spirits. “OK, chow time.” He announced, trying to muster enthusiasm. No need, they were all headed toward the front room and its aromas. Perfect. He actually felt his face change into the shape of a smile, must’ve been awhile. Someone had laid out a spread on the counter between the kitchen and living space, stacked plates and utensils, but the team were just gathering around the counter, like lions around a kill they fell to it.

After loading another roll with roast beef and horseradish, stuffing half of it in his mouth, and reaching for half an apple with other hand, feeling much better, he looked around. Buoyed by the lifting spirits he took in the room. Someone had also decorated for Christmas; greenery on the mantle, candles twinkling in votive holders. Greenery draped the big window that framed their street view but between him and the window, front and center, was a tree. Underneath, it looked like, instead of presents there were boxes of decorations, lights, and tinsel. So odd, surreal. A phone buzzed. Clint reached around to his belt.

  
“Hey,” he began with surprise after checking the number. “What?” big smile and a glance at Natasha, then Steve. “Well, Steve’s the boss…” he began.

  
Steve was shaking his head and swallowing the massive bite of roast beef. “Your house as much as mine.”

  
Clint turned to the fridge murmuring now. After a moment hung up and turned. “Well, Fury musta’ figured you'd say that ‘cause… We’re gonna have company!” He was beaming. Natasha patted him on the shoulder, smiling too.

  
A half an hour later two rowdy kids, Laura and the not-such-a-baby anymore were taking up all the space in the downstairs. Sam found Christmas carols on a Spotify station, whatever that meant, and those were background to the hustling and rustling of decorating. No one had even changed out of their gear. Still grabbing food off the counter, and fending off the kids while Steve and Clint finally got the lights on the tree, everyone's afternoon blended into pleasant distraction.

  
He was standing back, watching the happy chaos, when Nat bumped his elbow. “Just call her, Steve,” she said, wreathed in steam, proffering a mug of fragrant cider.

  
“I did call her.” Accepting the cup. “Twice.” Turned back, watching Clint’s kids, one standing on a chair, the other on the arm of the couch trying to reach the branches higher up. Sam boosted Rachael onto his shoulders – fits of giggling. He inhaled and smiled into the steam.

  
“You left a message.” Natasha again.

  
“Two messages.” He corrected – fudging. Technically he had left two messages, one right after the other because he’d fumbled the first one – forgotten to leave his phone number. Shook his head in disgust at the memory.

  
“Maybe something happened Steve…”

  
“Something did happen” he cut her off. “Someone.” Not wanting to rehearse the memory it happened anyway. Back for two days last week, between the ‘set up’ and the ‘take down’ he’d gone to the square grab coffee, see if he could bump into her. Sipped, hot cider nearly scalding his lips.

  
“You don’t know what that was about. He’s her colleague…” Nat was impatient now, aware her argument was losing steam against his frozen façade.

  
Interrupted her again. “Looked like more than that.” Refusing to look her way.  She sighed.

  
“Nat, I told you.”

  
“I know, I know, ‘he had his hand on the small of her back, and was opening the door for her.’ Steve, some guys are just handsy like that…” stopped, tired of insisting. “You don’t know what you don’t know. That’s all I’m saying.”

  
She started toward the tree, but had to lift her cider and balance it high to avoid the kids streaming at them yelling “Uncle Steve, Uncle Steve!” Evidently, he was being adopted just like Auntie Natasha. They were crashing toward him with a wide square box. As it collided with his midsection, Natalie shouted, “Your turn! The angel, the angel!” Clint Jr. handed him a box with a papier mache angel, blond and reddish curls tucked in tissue paper. “She goes on top!”

Perfect.

  
Through the cheering all around, as he placed the angel atop the tree, he almost didn’t hear his phone. Felt the buzz, pulled it off his belt. Double take. “Columbia University.” What the Hell? Depressed the button.

  
“Hello?”

  
“Umm, Hello” Familiar voice, unfamiliar tone. “This is Dr. Wexler at Columbia University. Sorry I’ve been so long in returning this call. We had some difficulties with our system a few weeks back and all the calls were rolled to the department number…”

What the? She was going on, he interrupted. “Cedar,” he began and the whole room went quiet. Great.

  
“Sorry?" pause on the other end.

  
“Cedar, its Steve.” Still the pause. “Steve Rogers.” Ugh. He didn’t like the sound of his voice.

  
“Yeah, I got that.” Voice sounding odd. “When did you…oh my god.” Quiet.

  
“Leave the message? A few Sunday’s ago.” Trying to sound nicer. Wasn’t working. Headed out of the room. “The Sunday after the Saturday…”

  
“But not your name.” Clear, simple.

  
“What?” He stopped halfway down the hall, listening hard into the silence at the other end.

  
“You didn’t leave your name, just your number.”

  
He looked up at the ceiling. Really? Could he have done that? Remembered being thrown off when the machine was the department not her personal office. That was why he’d had to call again, thrown off, forgotten to leave his name? Sure. Closed his eyes against the glaring stupidity. He could’ve forgotten to leave his name. What a perfect idiot.

  
“Steve?”

  
“Yeah?”

  
Heard her take a breath. “This message got shuffled to the bottom of the stack – no name, right?” Out of breath now. “I can’t imagine what you must be thinking.”

  
“Oh, I could tell you.” He stopped. ‘That I’m too much of an idiot to even be bothering you…’

  
“So” breathless now, hurrying into the lengthening pause. “I’m glad to hear your voice. I mean, it sounds like you’re OK. Is everyone OK? The television. It all looks so awful.”

  
“Yeah” turning back to face the festivities in the front room, now seeming 1000 miles away. “We’re all OK.”

  
“Good, well, I…” hesitating. “Are you back?” She sounded tentative.

For some reason he got mad.  “Yeah, we’re back. Actually, I got coffee in the square Tuesday afternoon. Guess that guy was your brother?” Mean now, and knowing exactly who it was.

  
“My brother? What? Tuesday? Steve, what are you…” pause, then. “Oh, of course you did.” Tone flat, sigh.

  
“So, not your brother.” Accusing.

  
“Nice!” stinging retort he ignored.

  
“ ‘Cause it looked like DeFries.” 

  
“I don’t care what it looked like! Of course it was Bill. We were, just discussing the damn paper – again!”

  
“He know that?” His mouth was totally out of control.  What was wrong with him?

  
“What?” Inhaling.

  
“Just looked like he had more on his mind.” Oh, shit. This was all wrong.

  
Barbed, wicked pause. Icy calm. “You didn’t call Steve.”

  
He hung his head, staring at his big feet. Where was the rewind? Could he get them out of his mouth? “I did call.” Weak.

  
“You could’ve called again.” Neutral tone he assumed she reserved for the recalcitrant student.

  
“Your right, and I should have. I just assumed…” he fumbled, eyes trying to find a pattern in the wallpaper.

  
“...and then you assumed again.” She cut him off. Silence. Oh man, what the hell do you say to that?  
“OK, well, I’m glad we got this cleared up. I'm glad your OK. I’ve got papers to grade.”

  
“Yep. OK.” Well, hell! Once more into the breach. “What’re you doing for Christmas?” Silence. Squeezing his eyes shut.

  
Sigh on her end. “Going to Asheville to see my mom for New Year’s and…” bigger sigh. “Bills’ invited me to their family place upstate to take his mom out for lunch.”

  
Damn, damn, damn, damn. But she didn’t sound excited… “Ah,”

  
“Yeah, so, glad you’re OK.”

  
“We’re good.”

  
“Bye, Steve.”

  
“Bye.”

 

 

“Bill,” he came stomping back into the room. The kids where playing under the tree. He was rummaging at the counter for his gloves.

“Steve was that…” Natasha stopped when she saw his face.

He found his gloves.  “What’s a bill anyway? Like a dollar bill?” To no one. But his tone had everyone’s attention. “Bill on a hat?!” threw a glove across the room like a missile; it landed halfway up the stairs. Kids impressed. “Bill on a duck?!” this one harder, sailing over the landing at the top. Phone rang. Snapped to.

  
“Hello? What? Yeah, coffee? OK. Twenty minutes…” trying to slow himself down, get a breath, painfully aware of the audience. “Yeah, how about thirty? I can make it.” Hung up. Looked at his watch, at the team. All eyes on him. Laura shooting Clint a questioning glance.

  
“Go! Go!” Natasha was shooing. He ran up the steps toward the shower.

 

 

She was standing outside, red coat, black boots. Her back was to him, she was balancing her purse on her hip, looked like she was applying lipstick by her reflection in the window and cradling the cell phone against her ear.

“I know Muriel. It’s OK. It’s completely OK. Of course I understand.” He could pick out her voice. “OK, OK, bye. Yes, yes. Really its’ fine.” Shifting, depressed the phone button still muttering, now to her reflection. He was mounting the curb to her left, couldn’t see her image in the window, just her back; anticipating seeing her face. Closer now, heard her muttering, sarcastic.

“No really, Muriel. No problem, just man of my dreams, but really, no trouble at all.”

Pulled up short. Shouldn't've overheard that. Stopped. But she’d seen movement and turned. Too close.

  
“Oh my God!” Right there, both palms on his chest, then one on his cheek. That burning touch. “Oh, my God. You are OK. You really are.” Wide eyes traveling all over his face, his shoulders.

  
He wasn’t breathing. Took her hands, gulped a breath. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. I told you.” Breath. “It’s, it’s just television. They always show the worst stuff. Everyone’s OK.” Not wanting to look away from her face, those lit eyes.

  
“Oh my God. Steve.” She stopped. Sighed, trying to settle a little. “Yeah.” Looked around, pulled her hands back.  
“OK” They just stood there.

  
“Uh, coffee?” he asked.

  
Standing in line, awkward, snatches of conversation. They kept looking at each other, reassuring themselves the other was really there. Again, she seemed to know everyone. Students? Grad students? Other faculty, the barista. He was asking her now.

  
“Latte’, right? Vanilla milk?” Trying not to be to completely obvious as he drank her in, re-remembering her. Her hands, the same rings, a bracelet he’d not seen. Nail polish. That was different. Such small hands, moving change around on the counter. He’d meant to pay. She was smiling at the barista, “almond milk.” Now smiling at him. “and his too. You know, tall, black, no milk or sugar – the ‘macho’.” Rolled her eyes as the girl smiled.

  
“Hey,” He fell right into play acting, play objecting, so easy with her; but realized the girl had recognized him. Cedar’s eyes were on the counter. “Hang on, Stacie.” Unzipping her wallet, then she pulled a leather glove out of her pocket and slipped it on. Withdrew a credit card with the gloved hand and gave it to the girl.

“I was gonna get that.” Objecting but puzzled, intrigued, another wrinkle – the gloves? The girl hadn’t reacted, was writing names on two cups. “Wex,” he noticed and then, eyes flashing briefly at him.

  
“Just Steve, please” Cedar suggested, but smiling. The girl nodded and wrote it on the cup, tiny smile back.

They had to settle on a small couch, low table in front of them. People in chairs on either side. She sat, then stood, started shrugging out of her coat, he’d popped up too, started reaching for the coat, all at odd angles, tangling limbs. She started laughing, stepped toward him and let him slide the coat from around her, that scent rising again. Looking down at her. Sweater he’d never seen, white, off-white, almond? Looked like it would feel soft, kind of fuzzy, dipping into a draping V, exposing collar bones, freckles sprinkled across her chest too. Realized she’d noticed him looking down at her. Scarlet painted her cheeks and she sat. Cringe. Good god!? Apologize?

  
Just then the other barista called, “Steve.” Handed her her coat, sure he was blushing. At the counter, the guy had pushed his cup to the edge of the counter. He reached for it but then the guy held up a hand. Turned, waiting, then was handed another cup, “Wex” on the side. Handing it to Steve, he winked. OK, this guy too. Now he felt himself frowning along with the blushing. Stopped. Looked down at the shiny counter, rebalanced the cups. Took a breath. Checked his heart beat and decided to look around. It was jammed. Full of people. They were lucky to have found a seat at all. She was chatting now, with a young man and woman. Took another deep breath and started walking over. Cool it, man.  Keep it cool.  Luckily, he could sit without blocking their conversation. She was still turned toward them as he sat the cups down, finally unzipped his jacket.

  
“Steve,” she had turned back. Those green eyes all he could look at to avoid the neckline. She was clearly pleased. “These are two of my absolute favorites.” Big, big smile. Hardly even paying attention to him. From this side he noticed a tiny gap in between two top teeth. “Jordie Reynolds and Tim Mabry. Grad students I have the very great pleasure to work with.” She meant it. And they were totally into it. Unfortunately, the girl couldn’t quite shut her mouth as she stared at him and Tim was throwing him serious shade. He stood, again, and stuck out his hand. “Tim,” they shook. “Jordie,” nodded at her, not sure what to do, wasn’t it impolite to shake a woman’s hand if she didn’t offer it? But she stuck out her hand and they shook. Not sure if he should sit back down or not.

  
“We’re just going.” Tim said. Jordie nodded and they turned, but she shot a look back at Cedar as they left.

  
Finally, he sat.

  
“Oh, good.” Cedar was smiling, picking up the coffee, but speaking through the smile. “That’s tweeted, like, now.” Shaking her head she sipped.

 

 

“The phone.” She’d started. “For God’s sake. It’s ridiculous. It's like a farce.” Shaking her head.

“Hey,” put his cup down. “I have to apologize,” she looked at him across the top of her cup. “Again.” Eyes down into the coffee. “I was a real jerk on the phone.”

  
She shrugged, sipping. “It was a misunderstanding.” Couldn’t suppress the smile around the edge of the cup. “But really…you forgot to...”

  
He put a hand across his brow bone and pressed hard. “I know.” Had to smile at her quiet laugh. “Just don’t say it, OK.” Taking his hand away. “Look, let me make it up to you…”

  
“Ugh!” she declared, louder than she meant to. “Stop.” Sat her cup down. Put her hand up, palm out. The universal sign for cease and desist. “Just stop. I hate that. I hate it.” Leaning forward the hand on his chest again…closed her eyes. “and there I go again.”

  
“What?” genuinely confused. “You hate what?”

  
“I hate that… hate the ‘I’ll make it up to you thing.’ It’s not like that. Relationships aren’t…” shaking her head and frowning. “There not, zero sum games, you know?” Earnest look.

  
“OK.” Nodding. Not sure. Really wanting to be sure.

  
“And,” deep breath. “There I go again putting my hand on your chest.” Pulling it back, “I just seem to really like doing that,” embarrassed, shifting.

He took back her hand, put it on his heart.  “I don’t mind it.” Voice sounding a little strained.

  
“I, I um, I think it’s your heart beat.” Serious blushing. “Nice to know your alive and all and...” a tiny tug like she wanted her hand back.

  
“I’m serious. I really…” emphasizing the word, “don’t mind.” Squeezing her hand. Then squeezing his eyes shut and dipping his chin and starting to shake his head. “But right now it’s for a really, really terrible reason.”

  
She could see he was actually grinding his teeth he was trying so hard not to grin. Failing. Looked back up at her, those deep eyes actually sparkling, dancing. Light on the ocean.  He was biting his bottom lip. Oh, cute. But what?

“What?” Her whole face was the shape of a question.

  
“You, uh,” slightest eye movement toward the door behind her. “You have a shadow.”

  
She looked confused then blanched, “What the?” whisper.

  
He was standing, again, into the inevitable; extending his hand. “Dr. DeFries,”

  
She was rising beside him. Like a slow volcano.

 

 

 

“Well, Mildred,” DeFries was explaining how he’d found her.

  
“Oh, and suddenly so efficient.” She mused airily. Steve was utterly amazing. DeFries had barged in. Now they were all standing again, the shaking hands. DeFries started off with “Is anything wrong?” Clearly a little stumped by Steve’s presence.

  
“No, Bill. Nothing is wrong. Nothing. At. All.” So this was seething. This was what it felt like to seethe. She could feel it under her skin, fighting shame at the same time. How did you deal with guys like this? So angry, at him, at herself, at Mildred.

  
“Well, then.” He was going on. Brisk, oblivious to anything but his own agenda. “I got your message. Cedar, we need to talk. I’ve made reservations for Christmas Eve with mother.”

  
“Yes, well. I do hope you enjoy that, Bill. But I hadn’t confirmed that I was joining you.”

  
“Yes, and that was very inconsiderate.” Scolding her.

  
Trying to keep her jaw off the floor meant she couldn’t even sputter. Then Steve interrupted. Attempting to prevent mayhem, she supposed.

  
“Wow, sorry. You know what’s inconsiderate?” He began. “Here we have our coffee already and you don’t have anything. Can I get you something Doctor?” Gesturing toward the counter, the line seven people deep.

  
Trying to regain her composure she shot him a ‘don’t you dare leave!’ look. Tiniest nostril twitch told her he was bluffing.

  
DeFries caved. “No, no. I have work to get back to.” Not even looking at Steve. “So you are resolved then.” Actually asking. Like she hadn’t already told him.  
Resolved? Who talked like this? WHAT A PRICK! Shouting at herself.

  
“I felt like I needed to let you know.” She managed.

  
YES! YES! Steve was staring at the floor, exulting. And ashamed of himself.

Blur, after that. Bill, leaving; them sitting. Coffee lukewarm, sipping again. What a goddamned fool! She could hardly look back at Steve. He’d handled that so well. Not “smooth” in some sleazy way – straightforward, but gracious. She was watching Bill march back across the street, tight ass. Horrified at herself. Turned back to Steve.  
He was just sitting there, looking at her. What could she say? She was stupid, weak, needed company, even if she knew Bill wanted more, always did, always had. Thai food, Bill knew her weakness, always the excuse of talking about the damn paper.

   
“Steve” She started, but, the way he was looking at her. Could you feel like you were falling when you were sitting down?

  
“You know,” His voice, quiet, still cut through the din. “…sometimes you’re so beautiful it actually hurts.”


	10. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets smoked, revealing more than he means too.

SOFT

“So, tell me about this doctor.”

  
Wow, OK. Awkward enough coming back to find only Laura there, alone at the kitchen table nursing the baby. Everyone and everything safely draped in a blanket, but still, so far outside his experience – this whole new world.

  
It would’ve been fine to have come back to an empty house and the fire, had some time to himself to process. They’d lingered a long time at the coffee shop, refills and back-fill, filling each other in about the previous weeks. It wasn’t too hard. She just let him talk, didn’t ask questions she knew she couldn’t answer. Then they’d gone back to her office, just to hang out for another few minutes. Filled those nicely.

  
Laura was gesturing for him to have a seat at the table, as he just stood there awkwardly with his water glass. Sat down. Such a shock, discovering Clint had a family. Secrets. Sure they lived their secret lives, but how many secrets did they have from each other?

  
Looked at the clear water in his glass. Compared to them – I’m an open book. A smacking noise from under the blanket surprised a smile out of him.

  
“Yeah, noisy eater.” Laura was shifting around. He started to stand.

  
“I can give you some…” didn’t need to finish with ‘privacy.’ Something like a magic trick had been accomplished under the blanket and the feet sticking out did a shuffle kick and they both settled.

  
“We’ve got it covered.” Laura winked. “Sooo?”

 

 

Front door clicked and swung open, Natasha returning. His glass was empty and the sated baby was laying across Laura’s lap.

  
“Hey, everyone.” Nat smiled, then “you back already?” to Steve.

  
“She has late class at 7:00.”

  
“So?”

  
He’d told Laura, but really didn’t want to confess the whole ridiculous mess to Nat.

  
“Big misunderstanding. She’s gonna come over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Told you.” Nat getting herself a glass of water.

  
“Well, tell me!” Laura insisted. The women exchanged a glance that seemed to indicate that Laura wanted more information about Cedar, and also a glass of water.

  
“OK,” said Nat sitting. So not fair. All their secrets and he was a sitting duck.

  
Eyes on Steve, then back to Laura. “So I’m guessing you’ve heard that she’s ‘brilliant’ and ‘beautiful?’” Laura nodding.  “That people, students, neighbors, store owners, they all love her. She’s really ‘caring’ and oh, ‘smart and funny’ right?” Nat smiling into her next sip of water. Eyes to Steve, "Am I getting this right?"

  
“Spot on.” Laura confirmed, then giggling, continued. “Oh, and posture.” Trying to stifle a laugh.

  
Come on! Shaking his head.

  
“Yeah, ok.” Nat smiling, the women completely ignoring him. He started to rise. “She does have good posture. Thought she might’ve been a dancer.”

  
“No?” asked Laura.

  
“Soccer player. Gymnast? Steve?” trying to lure him back into the conversation. Wasn’t sure if he should answer.

  
“Looks like she’s in pretty good shape. Goes to yoga classes. I’m betting pretty flexible. Steve?” as if asking for confirmation, but now just straight up teasing.

  
OK, that’s enough. “OK then, since I’m not needed here…” putting his glass in the dishwasher, and making to leave.

  
“Hang on. Don’t get all touchy." Nat chiding.

  
“Come on back.” Laura coaxing. “We’ll let you talk if you’ll talk.”

  
“You so wanna talk.” Nat again, eyes on his, eyebrows up, nodding.

Damn. He did want to talk. Had been dying to. Sat back down.

 

 

The baby was in the pack-n-play and they were half way through a pot of coffee when Clint and Sam got back from the gym. He’d relaxed. Talking was a good thing. Helped him sort stuff out. They were good listeners too. He’d stretched his legs out under the table, crossed at the ankle. Immediately upon seeing the trio in the kitchen Clint pulled up short.

  
“Oh, oh.” Then coming around behind his wife to massage her shoulders “So what’s going on in here?”

  
“Just chatting.” Laura smiled.

  
“I don’t know,” Sam looked at Steve. “Looks like your outnumbered, man.” Steve shifted in his chair.

  
“He’s wwaayy outnumbered.” Clint squeezed Laura’s shoulders again and she put a hand on top of one of his, chuckling low. “In a room alone with either of these two and you’re outnumbered.”

  
Occurred to Steve, what was Natasha’s most devastating skill? Interrogation. What a dork he was.

  
“Let me guess” Clint continuing. “True confessions? Am I right? Steve, tell us a little about the doctor, huh?”

  
Recrossed his ankles under the table and cleared his throat.

  
“Shut up Clint, you’re just jealous. We’ve got the scoop, down to one word.” Nat, eyes sly and sparkly, darting from Clint to Laura.

  
Traitor! Unwilling to meet his eyes. “Hey, what happened to ‘kitchen table’ stuff?” He began.

  
“We’re still in the kitchen!” Clint insisted. “One word? One word, huh?” musing, looking around, making the most. “Skin?”

  
“Skin?!” Laura craned around to look at him.

  
“She has nice skin. Some of us have a thing…” thumb along her cheek and a wink.

  
Really! Geez??

  
“Surprisingly close, buddy, but no go.” Nat looking at Clint. “Has more to do with those sweater fibers tangled around his shirt buttons.” Cocking her head at Steve.

  
“Hey, man.” Sam quick, not quick enough. “Don’t look. She’s just jerkin’ your chain…oh.”

  
Too late. Automatic. Steve’d looked down and sure enough, long, light colored sweater fuzz tangled around a button. He chuckled.


	11. Visitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cedar comes for dinner and a cozy evening.

VISITATION

 _"In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be_  
 _Received by men"_ \- John Donne

 

He’d hauled open the door, scooped her and all her packages in out of the wind, then just standing there in the front hall, still holding onto her blurted “You look like an angel!” Totally unselfconsciously.

  
Really? Felt her face get tight, from the cold, from the term. Holding onto the packages, bags getting heavy. “'Tis the season.” Tried on a smile. She must’ve grimaced.

  
“OH.” Then there was that raging blush and he was moving, taking the packages, getting out of her way.

  
Stupid. Stupid. The craziest thing, just asking for shit like that. A cream colored overcoat, wool, in New York City? Now, she only wore it on the most special of occasions. It’d been an impulse buy back when; a protest purchase her first winter here after Berkeley - her California girl declaration against the tides of black swirling and eddying down all the streets. She’d paid for it twice over in dry-cleaning bills before she’d gotten enough money for a different purchase, decided on the red then. Kept this in the dry-cleaner’s bags almost year round.

  
Now he was helping her out of it. Tingling pleasure as he lifted its weight off her shoulders and let her shrug out of it; slid it down her arms behind her. Was she blushing, turning to face him? They were in a little vestibule, the open hallway leading into louder rooms.

  
Frowning. Awkward seconds. “Guess that was weird. Sorry.”  He stepped close, looking down at her again, reaching for her hand. Dizzy? Really, c’mon Cedar! His shirt was a crusty old guy brown check, focus. Button down. Top button unbuttoned, tee shirt underneath. What did he smell like? Soap?

  
“I’m glad you came over.” Interrupting the reverie. Sounding half-apologetic? “I guess it’s your turn to run the gauntlet now.” Reached for her hand.

  
Oh. Voltage, but sweet, sweet, sweet; a bit of concern on his face. Nerves, her? Sure, but not really because of the others.

  
“You look beautiful.” Looking at her eyes now, earrings. Noticing, she guessed, that she’d fixed her hair a bit more than usual, done her makeup, was wearing a necklace.

 

“Yeah, well,” breaking the gaze. “I noticed yesterday that you liked my sweater.”

  
He pressed his eyes shut, dropped her hand. Biting his bottom lip. Cute!

  
“OK, so that’s how it is huh?”

  
“Oh yeah.” punching his ribs gently, rose onto her tiptoes and surprised him with a peck on the lips.

  
Hands seized her shoulders, eyes flew open, saw her shock, let go.

  
“Sorry, I” she whispered, half inch from his lips, then lowering back down from her toes.

  
“No,” pulling his hands off an inch. “I’m…” blew out air. Eyes on her lips, back to her eyes. “I just missed you,” laugh, “Since yesterday.”

  
“Mmmm” God, me too!

  
“I wanted to kiss you right there in the coffee shop.” Hand reaching, thumb near her ear, tracing her jawline toward her mouth.

  
“Yeah,” just got here and already was vibrating from the closeness. “Not the best in public, home turf and all.”

“Especially not the way I wanted to kiss you.” Went his mouth. Pressed his lips, and eyes shut. Not even bourbon as an excuse.

"Yeah?" she asked, and there was her hand again, trying to stay upright, balance against him.

  
Kids flooding the hallway. “Presents!”

 

 

He’d scooted to the edge of the couch; of someone else’s leather sofa, elbows on his own knees, very aware of his hands. Everyone else had headed upstairs but the thumps and bumps of Clint’s kids carried on.  The seat cushion shifted beside him and he half turned to find Cedar’s face beside his. He opened his mouth to ask his question, only to have her lean forward and kiss it away. A hand to her cheek, one on her waist, turning into the kiss. All right then.

  
“You were saying?” she smiled, still close.

  
“Yeah, uh. I was gonna ask you. I was worried maybe we’d moved backwards.  All the mix ups?” Tucking her hair behind her ear again. She tilted her cheek into his palm.

  
“Don’t think so.” Smiling, eyes like a shiny hook.

“Hope not.”

A nice evening. She’d brought a book for Clint’s family, and a copy for him – Christmas letters written by J.R.R. Tolkien to his children, as Santa Claus. Britain during World War II. About Steve’s vintage. After a phone conference with Laura she’d also brought a DVD of The Hobbit, a BBC cartoon version, not too scary. Perfect for Steve’s ongoing cultural education, she’d joked. So they’d piled onto the sofa with the kids and partway through he’d taken her hand, warm and small there on the sofa cushion between them. Long, warm fingers interlaced with his.

  
She’d brought eggnog and bourbon, Woodford, her favorite. An adult discussion about bourbon, Tennessee or Kentucky. Vodka and Russia, and moonshine and North Carolina where she was from. Lots of laughter and explanation from Cedar, commenting that highway 420 was pretty much taking all the traffic there these days. Had to explain the reference to Steve.

 

‘I wanted to kiss you at the coffee shop’ echoing all night. How long was this movie? These kids were great. These folks were nice. This world wasn’t as exceptionally weird as she’d been imagining. Just that spooky front hall closet. Oddly normal otherwise. How many people lived here? Holding her hand, so sweet. ‘Especially not the way I wanted to kiss you.’ What? And that right after ribbing him about liking her sweater.

  
“Hey,” calling her back. “Where are you?”

  
“ummmmm…Coffee shop” she answered. “and… you said something earlier.”

  
“I did.” Perfect. Thank you. Leaned toward her face, cheek still against his palm. Her lips warm. Kiss started drifting, to the corner of her mouth, then the edge of her chin, along her jawbone. So soft. Pushed soft hair away from her ear.

 

That lurch again and the muffled “mmmfph,” escaped just as loud thumping and Laura’s voice halfway down the stairs.

  
“Hey kids!” teasing and good natured.

  
They’d pulled apart before she came into view. “We ended up upstairs without blankey.” Searching around the kitchen without looking at them. “Ah ha!” Blankey had gotten lodged between throw pillows where she’d been nursing Nathaniel. “Good night, guys; and really nice to meet you Cedar.” Waving, with blankey, disappeared up the stairs.

Oh yeah. So gonna hear about this tomorrow. Rubbing his forehead. Cedar chuckling, bumped her shoulder against him, warm and close. Turned his head. Oh no.

  
“What?” she pulled back.

He looked away. She’d told him he had no poker face. Reminded him of someone else saying “you know nothing about women.”

  
“What is it?” asking again.

Back to her. “Your eyes. They’re…” pause was long.

  
“Green.”

  
“Yeah, OK OK. So I had some down time this past couple weeks. A little too much. Thinking about… things.” Shoulders touching, both of them backs against the couch. Now he looked at her again.

  
“Did you know that only about 2% of people in the world have green eyes?”Nodded.  “And I did check multiple sources…” she laughed.  “Not just Wikipedia. And this Mendel guy?” now she was nodding. So great, sharing the same channel. “He counted something like 4000 peas in one summer?”

  
“Well, he’s a priest, right?” damn eyes twinkling now. “You pray, you read, sleep, count peas.” Now her hand was twining in his again.

  
“I think I understand the pundit squares thing.”

  
“Punnit” she corrected, simply. “But…”

  
“Hang on. More to it than that. My take away. It’s that Rayleigh scattering.” Eyebrows went up. Signaling to see if she had his approval.

  
“Very impressive…”

  
“ ‘Cause it’s the light too… your eyes look different in different light. They change. It makes perfect sense, scientifically but it still.” Turning toward her now, utterly serious.  
“Kinda always takes my breath away.”

 

Too much. Heat. Hot. Itchy. Lighten up.  “And they look really nice with my sweater.” Teasing.

  
“Hey, OK. Nevermind. Where were we?” Sitting up, playfully tugging her over, lips at the back of her jaw.

  
“This?” she breathed. “this how you wanted to kiss me at the coffee shop?” Stretching toward him.

  
Just under her ear now. Spoke “yes” to softest skin.

  
Was he sweating? Where were his hands? She smelled amazing. Soft sweater under his fingers.

  
Hot, sweater was getting itchy, wished there was less of it. Backwards? No, forward if anything. She’d had time to be disappointed, then mad, then just sad. Started down that stupid ‘what might’ve been’ rabbit trail.  “I was mad at you.” Turning her mouth toward his.

He stopped, sighed, didn’t move.  “I can understand that. But…” Hands running down her arms. Petting the sweater.

  
“But” they’d started at the same moment. Now looking at each other.

  
Dive right in. “I realized I wasn’t really mad. Just…missing you. If you think those dates were fake…” Hand on his chest again. Aaaannnddd he noticed, was taking it in his again.

  
“I missed you. Seeing you yesterday in the coffee shop…” Why the tucking her hair back? Why did that feel so good?

“Yeah,” she started. Shameless. Was she gonna do this? Just so wanted to hear it again… yep. “You said something...” couldn’t hold his eyes.

  
She was asking. This was great. Thank you. Almost as good as just kissing him. Helping him talk to her. This works.  
“Oh, yeah. That you’re so beautiful it hurts?”

  
“Oh, yeah. It was something like that.” Smile, eyes closed, nose against his cheek.

  
OK. Well then.  “You’d turned your head, see.” Having trouble breathing? Definite difficulty with the hands. “Your hair was behind your ear, like this. You were watching DeFries, as he left.” Retracing his own gaze from the day before, but now with his thumb. Her mouth to her chin, along her jawline. “You have this little knob of bone here.” Touching the spot behind her ear, he felt her tense. “and a… beauty mark?” looking for the right word “just below...” fuzzing out of his vision he was so close.

  
Hand on his chest a little push. “And you wanted to… Kiss. Me.” A little louder on those last two whispered words.

  
"Yes." an invitation.  He let his hands go a bit, his mind wander, mouth open over the spot on her neck. She sighed, felt warmer, leaning closer. How had he lived so long without this softness?  Hands ahead now, mind trailing behind.  One ran one up her back, into her hairline pushing her toward him, mouth now on skin. Tongue tracing the ridge of bone. The other lost in softness.

  
Gut punch noise again, like that first kiss. What? He started pulling away.

  
“Oh Shit! No, don’t…” She cursed quiet. “Sorry, I’m just,” hiding her face against the side of his head. Arms tight around him.

“What?” didn’t want to move. Was hoping to understand.

“I thought I was. That I’m just.” Stuttering, great. “Embarrassing you. I know I’m …I’m kinda” OK, she was blushing now too. “Expressive and…”

“Yeah, I noticed so" pressing his lips together. "help me out here.” Could hardly get his breath. Guided her cheek towards his face. Keep breathing. “I’m just…I just wanna make sure I understand what you’re expressing.”

Eyes on his. Holy shit. This had to be progress. Keep going.

“These little…” he was whispering. Starting to smile.

  
“Noises?” She offered? Hiccup giggle.

“Yeah. Am I, is it too much? Are you…” He was flushed, searching her face.

“Am I what?” eyes big.

Couldn’t stop. One soft kiss on her mouth. “Just sounds like… distress.” Gulped a half a smile.

“Ummm. No.” silence.  “Ok” she started. Aching. Something too like pain in her chest. Breathe. Loosen up. He was so focused, so present. It was difficult, like slow walking.  
That feeling again, fumbling, not close enough, wanting to be closer; swirling river but stuck on a log. “Trust me?” She whispered.

“Sure.”

She shifted back, reset on the couch, still close, both palms flat, resting on his shoulders.  Leaning forward she started kissing him gently, drawing him in. Finally, feeling him relax toward her, hands drifting along her sides, her arms again. With intention, she started drawing her hands down his chest, slowly, fingers finding the crevices carved by muscles, ribs. Feeling his breath change, she pressed harder, kissed deeper, started to lose what she was doing.

He was pitching forward. Losing the room, everything but her hands, her mouth.  When her fingertips reached his bottom rib, hands flat on his belly, the stab in his groin made him gasp. Snatched her hands. “Cedar” through clenched teeth.  Just far enough to focus on her eyes. Her eyebrows up, lips looking swollen, deep scarlet on her cheeks.

  
“Distress?” she whisper asked.

  
“No.” No, nope. Desire. Just plain old, primal, essential, undiluted desire.

 

 

“And I’m not blushing” she was clarifying while trying to breathe. He’d explained, after leaning her back into the back of the couch and kissing his way across her collar bones, that that’d been the other thing about the coffee shop, and the sweater. That he was pretty sure everyone he knew had collar bones but what with the sweater and her head turned like that, he’d wanted to trace them, run his thumb and mouth all across hers. Never had that experience before, never ever ever wanted to do that with any other collar bones.

  
“I’m flushed,” she was still talking. “…a vasomotor reaching, not unlike blushing.” He started kissing the collarbones again, from the other direction this time, hovering over her, the letting his mouth dip lower, 11pm shadow snagging angora. Now she was struggling to talk. “Blushing though, indicates embarrassment… flushing…” her hands were traveling across his chest sweeping his stomach. Tiny catches in her breath.

  
Desire, not distress. Now that he knew. It was maddening. She was enjoying this. Excited. Pulling her with one hand, the other gentle around the softness of her breast now.

  
“Steve”

  
He paused, but she held tight again, trapping his hand.

  
“No, no, no… I mean.” Got a breath. Sigh, half a laugh. “When I say your name” tucking a knee under her, behind him on the couch, “but it sounds like ‘please’"... Fingers in his beltloops now, pulling hard, “it means I like…whatever you’re doing.”

Tugging, she was half on his lap now, facing him. Half insane, sustained-lunge toward her, gathering her into him.

 

Thumping on the stairs again. Natasha announcing loudly “Clint’s a chicken. Won’t come get the diaper bag.”

  
Sigh through her nose, then Cedar, a whisper. “We could go to my place.” Giggle.


	12. Cedar's Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve keeps learning. Cedar's past threatens the present.

Cedar's Demons

With a not completely unaccustomed flash of thigh, Cedar uncrossed her legs and levered up off the couch heading across to the kitchen. Back at the apartment she always headed straight to her bedroom and changed or half changed, almost always losing the stockings, and often other pieces of clothing, as well as shoes. Small feet – toenails painted.

  
“You want me to pause it?” Steve asked, continuing to watch, knowing the answer.

  
“No. I just know this kid ‘Trigger’ or whoever is gonna drown. I just don’t know why you wanna watch this stuff. It’s traumatic.” She was getting the bourbon down from the high cabinet.

  
“It’s real.” He insisted, sitting back, watching her instead of the television, just wanting her to come back to the couch.

  
Back still turned she said. “Like I said, traumatic. But I know, I mean I guess I understand. It’s part of your history. Mine too, but in a different way.”

  
They’d decided to work together on catching him up. Lord of the Rings was quite a bit to bite off so they opted for the movies instead of the books. Tonight had been his choice.

  
He made a decision. Switched it off. She turned, stirring the lemon into her hot toddy. “It’s OK. We can still…”

  
“No. Let’s do something different. If we’re catching me up, how about you tell me more about yourself - the long stories.”

  
“Huh,” sigh. “Up for more trauma then.” But, coming back to the couch, it was a conversation they were going to have to have.

 

 

“So dad died, massive heart attack, when I was 17, junior in high school. I was already pretty out of control but that sent things into the stratosphere.” She was sitting propped at one end of the couch against the arm, her toes tucked under his thigh.

  
“Well, this guy,” sigh. “Corry, short for Corryton, where I think he was from, a friend of my brother Matthew,” her pitch rising. “He and his parents were part of Matthew’s ‘congregation.’ Corry started hitting on me.”

Steve was trying not to frown.

“He was 21? 22? I guess, so pretty flattering. We started sneaking around, having sex.  Well, his parents found out, accused him, guilty tears and all that. Evidently called the elders of the church over to their house, not Matthew, but the rest of them. Naturally, they decided I’d seduced him. Stories about my mom, my own behavior, dad dying of the sudden heart attack. It all added up - to them.” She checked his face for understanding.

  
“I was possessed by a demon. Right? Makes sense.” Gritting her teeth. She was angry, hurt, spinning into the memory.  “Or that I was a demon, something like that, so the elders, wanting to spare Matthew, decided to take it on themselves to do an exorcism.”

He put a hand on her foot, she was cold, but it seemed important to keep going.

  
“Corry, tried to warn me, next day. I was at school, tried to sneak out at 5th period but they were already in the parking lot. Worst part of it was… well, there were lots of worst parts, but…he was there. They’d made him come with them.  They made me get into one of their cars. I didn’t have the sense at the time to be screaming or fighting. They just said they were taking me up to the church for ‘a little exercise.’ Some part of me was hoping Matthew would be there but I knew better. He had a job at Lowe’s in Waynesville at the time, didn’t get home till after 6.”

  
“So he wasn’t at the church. That’s when I started getting scared because they kept on with the exorcism thing, and I couldn’t really imagine what they thought they were going to do. I’m not sure they knew either.” She looked over at him and shook her head, sighed, reached down for his hand. He held hers.

  
“I did the worst possible thing.” Paused. “Bratty, scared, 120 pounds of feisty, smarted than them and I knew it; all teenage hormones and female rage.” His hand tightened around hers.

  
“I started goading them, taunting them. You know, stuff like ‘What’ere you gonna do Carl? Whack me with a bible?’ ‘Hey Mason, you gonna play Amazing Grace till my ears bleed?’ and finally, oh God.” She swallowed, pulled her hand away. Now gesturing… “Ya’ll gonna hang me on that cross Uncle James made? You know the end of that story!” Her voice had gotten louder, channeling that girl. Shaky breath, pulling her hands into her lap and interlocking fingers to keep them from trembling.

  
“I think that last bit of blasphemy did the trick.” Tried a shaky smile.

  
Steve realized his jaw was clenched, imaging that girl, tried to loosen up, to hear this story? Confession? Whatever it was she needed to tell him. Kept his eyes steady on her. “You don’t have to tell me this. But…I’ll listen.”

  
“Yeah, no. I think I do have to tell you this. If, if you’re up for it.” Green eyes wide in the lamplight.

  
“I told you. I wanna hear your long stories.” Big hand around both feet now, trying to warm her up.

  
“Well,” she started. “Then, can I just…” pivoted around, back to him, looked over her shoulder and scooted into his lap, tucking her shoulder under his arm and resting her head on his chest.

  
He’d leaned back and opened his arms but was still surprised by the way she fit so snugly against him, her weight, her warmth, her body not cold at all. He shifted and sighed.

  
“Too much?” she asked, starting to move.

  
“What? No, no.” smiling into her hair and tightening his arms around her, settling her back down. He leaned his head against the back of the couch looking at the ceiling, closed his eyes. “Makes me think of ice cream.”

  
“Yeah?” she asked.

  
“Yeah. This one time you leaned over to wipe some off my face. We were sitting on that bench.”

  
“Ah,” she remembered.

  
“Lost your balance?” kind of a question.

  
“…and caught myself against you like” she placed a palm flat against that chest. Hand folded over hers as he lifted his head and looked down at her.

  
“Yep.”

  
“And you gave me one of those super-intense looks like you’re doing right now.”

  
“Yeah?” eyebrows shot up, then, the wrinkling brow. “What looks?”

  
“Seriously?” she asked. “Those looks that are like…” stopped. “Wow, I can’t say that out loud.” Looking away from him.

  
“No, wait. Do.” Jostling her lightly. “Help me out here.” Squeezing the hand on his chest.

  
“What? I don’t see how that would help.” Sounding nervous.

  
Coloring slightly, he frowned. “I don’t…well. OK, Nat likes to say that what I know about women is - ‘not a lot.’ And I’ve heard that before. So I don’t always know how I come across, really, to you.” Studied her face, looking uncertain. Nodded. “So…” his eyes asking. “Super-intense looks that say…” he prompted.

  
She took a breath, half-smiled, swallowing nerves. “That say, ‘I don’t know what to do with you, but I’d like to do something.”

  
Head snapped back; laugh. “Oh! Whoa!!” tilted his head down and gently bumped her forehead with his. “OK, well, pretty transparent, huh?”

  
“Yeah? Read that one right, did I?” staring cross-eyed at him.

  
“Yeah,” cleared his throat. “ ‘Cause when you put your hand on me like that that day I wanted to pull you into my lap just like this.”

  
She pressed her face against his chest and sighed. “It’s OK? You like it, then?”

  
“I do like it.” Still laughing a bit, closed his eyes. Then whispering, laying his cheek against the top of her head. “I like it a lot.”

 

 

 

“…holding me under in the baptismal.”

  
“What? Cedar…” They were both sitting up straighter now. She’d scooted away, off his lap, and was pressing her back up against the arm of the couch, arms wrapped around herself, feet flat against the cushions. She’d pulled away slowly, going from soft to rigid, relaxed to tense and hyper-alert.

  
“Wait” he said. “I don’t understand what you mean – baptismal?” Shaking his head, frowning. She could see he was trying to form a picture in the darkness that had fallen around them.

  
“OH! Jesus!” she swore. “You’re Catholic, of course.” Shaking her head to clear it. “Ok,” reaching around, she switched on the lamp on the end table behind her. “It’s a Baptist church. They have these, well, they’re like big tubs – it’s a tank really. Usually behind a curtain or movable panel behind the pulpit at the front. It holds, oh, 120-150 gallons of water.” She’d gone completely distant now, lecture mode, miles away.  “See, Baptists, most groups, don’t think baptism’s done right unless its full emersion – dunked all the way under.” She looked at him to check. His face was a mix of confused and incredulous.

  
“They don’t baptize infants!” she hurried to clarify. Got a sigh of relief in return. “They believe you have to be ‘of age,’ old enough to make your own decision to get baptized. Then, you do it like Jesus did – in a river, or, a tank of water. One, two, three; Father, Son, Holy Ghost and the pastor covers your mouth and nose and dunks you backwards, all the way under.”

  
She’d been looking out the dark window, now back to him. Her pupils were fully dilated, not seeing him, but staring down whatever old fear she was experiencing again.

  
“Cedar, three men?” He couldn’t keep from asking, felt like he should call her back from that church, that terror and sacrilege.

  
“Well,” eyes snapped back to her locked hands again. She started smoothing the edges of her dress. “Two grown men and Corry. They made him help so…” her voice trembling now. “Those hands that had been up my skirt all those times? Holding me under.”

  
As she’d said it Steve swore and reached for her, but then hesitated, hands popping off her skin like away from a hot stove eye.

  
“Yup!” she scrambled up fast, knocking over an empty glass, cursing. “Too much,” heading toward the counter.

  
“Cedar,” he was standing now.

  
“No really.” She said not turning. “It’s OK, I get it,” red wine splashing into the glass.

  
“Get what?” He wasn’t sure he should move, wanted to go to her but caught in the beam of the single light over the bar she looked like a frightened animal; like she might fight or bolt. So he just stood watching. She took a huge gulp from the full glass. He heard a deep breath, watched her forcing her shoulders down, dip her head to stretch her neck.

  
She turned around, leaning against the bar, staring at the wine in the glass. “I’ve told that story twice. Three times now. I understand the response ‘Chick has some baggage!’” mimicking a male voice “Not sure I need any of that!” mimicry trailing off.

  
“That’s not my response.” He said, moving toward her now.

  
“Oh no!” she shot back, turning, huge eyes full on his face, stopping him cold. He frowned. “You couldn’t even touch me just now. Not even a pat on the shoulder!” Angry, accusing. Then pressing the bridge of her nose with two fingers, “listen…”

  
“Nope.” He said as lightly as he could, moving around the end table toward her. “I think you should listen a second.” She tensed as he got close. He stopped, held up both hands.  “You’re telling me what these guys did to you. I just…” dropped his hands, now unsure how to go on.

  
“Yeah.” She nodded. Eyes back on her glass, raising it to her mouth.

  
He was there, hand over the top of the glass. As his other hand settled on her shoulder she jumped, wine sloshed and the terrified gaze slapped him again. He stood still, concentrating on his breathing, willing her to breath. Three breaths in and she closed her eyes. He wrapped his fingertips around the wide rim of the glass and tugged it from her grip; set it down.

  
“My response,” he said quietly. “I just want to hold you, comfort you or something, if that’s possible. But I don’t wanna be like those guys.”

  
“Uh, huh. But, there’s the rub, right?” Her shoulders were slumping, her body taking the shape of defeat, of loss. She was leaving.

  
“Cedar, wait.” Pleading in his voice, stepped in closer. “Can I?” whispering now.

  
“Can you? Can you what?” asking. 

  
“Can I just wrap myself around you till it goes away?” The sincerity, the warmth in his voice, on his face.

  
Her own voice caught in her throat, she stepped into him. “Well, I sure wouldn’t mind if you tried.”


	13. Relationship 101: Basics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's getting some relationship basics and advanced lessons as well.

Relationship 101: Basics

“Wow, it really is an antique store.”

  
“An Antique Market,” she corrected, hand shading her eyes, peering through the glass. “Come on. I love stuff like this.” Flash of eyes, coat toward the door and the jangle of the bell.

  
“Always bring an umbrella” he said to himself as he stepped inside.

  
“What?” No sign of rain. They’d been walking all morning, through his old neighborhood. The tour seemed to consist of all the places he’d gotten beaten up as a young man, and the different spots that had been recruiting offices. A turn around the block he’d grown up on yielded nothing of note, as nothing original remained.  Fascinated, she’d listened to everything and asked questions. This latest stop felt different, his mood shifting. He was lingering at the door, replaying. She was browsing various stalls. He wandered over to one that had no other shoppers, only an old man tending musty books. He started looking at titles. “These all originals?” He asked, unfolding a map of the neighborhood.

“Yes they are young man. And why would you be interested in such a thing. You an architecture student?”

  
“No, no. Army.” More or less true. “Just,” paused, never any good at inventing. “Just interested in maps. My, uh, grandparents, lived near here.”

  
The old man, missing the lower part of his leg, Steve now saw. Levered up off of his stool, making his way around a messy table, toward him. “Now where exactly, do you know?”

  
“Right about here” Steve pointed on the map. “As far as I can tell.”

  
“Oh, yeah, well. Nothing left there now. Irish? Catholic?” The man squinted at him, appraisingly.

  
“Yes sir.” Automatic.

  
“Sir!’ coughed a laugh and clapped Steve on the shoulder. “You must be military, talking to your elders like that.” Eyes twinkling. Guessing at the man’s age, quite elderly and frail, almost a surprise he’d be here by himself.

  
“Were you in the war, sir?”

  
Eyes opened wider. “Yes I was.” Made his way back to the stool. So many questions he wanted to ask; Where were you stationed? What division were you in? That craving for someone with common experience, but an aisle over he heard Cedar laugh, then a mixture of Italian. Past and present.

 

 

“There you are.” Smiling. “This is Tito, and he makes these lovely things!” Steve’s parcel was tucked under his arm. She was gesturing toward a table full of silver jewelry set with stones; rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings and pieces he wasn’t sure he could identify.

  
“Some of them,” Tito extending his hands, “modeled on old world originals. Many, my own adaptations.” Humility and pride warring in his salesmanship. Then noticing the parcel.

  
“What do you have there? You’ve not spent money with that Irish bastard Bryan?!” Let his eyes go wide. “Old maps! You’re a young man. Find your way around this world, this day. Spend your money on – uh, uh – GPS! And jewelry!” Eyes back to Cedar.

  
“No offense, sir but,” I’m Irish he started to say.

  
“Oh I’m not offending! Bryan is my oldest friend. His younger brother and I, inseparable. Robert died seven years ago. Is Deborah back yet?” craning around to see if he could see through the stacks.

  
They all three turned. A young woman with dark hair, and that singular complexion – black Irish, was handing the old man, Dolan, a coffee. Petting his arm and speaking too loudly.

  
That could be me. Steve thought to himself, half listening to Cedar talking about earrings and stones. A phone rang, a ringtone he didn’t recognize. She jumped, spun and dug in her pocketbook. He saw her face as she raised the screen.

  
“I have to take this” to him, to the vendor. “So, sorry.” She looked worried, starting out onto the sidewalk.

  
“Cedar?” She waved him back.

  
Moments later she came back in. “Let’s get lunch, can we. I’m starving.”

  
“Everything ok? Who was that?”

  
She looked startled, concerned. Paused before answering. “Lucas, no. Nothing wrong.” Eyes up and down the street. “Where can we get something? Not my neck of the woods.”

  
“Mine either, not anymore.”

 

 

“So Lucas. You two talk much?” a café’ with soup and bread. She was blowing on steaming soup.

  
“No, not much. The holiday’s I guess. Updating me on the girls. Nine and fourteen now. Wow. Hard to believe.”

  
It was.

  
“So listen. We’ve walked around all morning, and I love the details but, come’on” eyes tugging, changing the subject. “Tell me some stories.”

  
“Oh boy, well there was all that getting beaten up.”

  
“Ugh, better stories. Ok, who was your first girlfriend?” Bite of soup.

  
“Oh,” looking back in his mind. “Marion.”

  
“OK, and…”

“And…” raised his eyebrows, “not much. We were in 5th grade, and we were ‘dating’ for about four hours one Saturday afternoon, at church.”

  
“Oh, hot date for sure.”

  
“Well, there was baking…” Waggled his eyebrows. Starting on his soup.

  
“Baking?”

  
“Yeah, our moms were all there, baking for a bake sale, raise money for the war. Which meant a bunch of us kids were there, which meant Bucky was there,” quick smile. “which meant… girls.”

  
She smiled. It tugged her heart but she loved hearing about Bucky.

  
“So, he decided I need a girlfriend and, who knows, somehow talked Marion – oh geez, I don’t even remember her last name…”

  
Cedar tsking.

  
“Anyway.” Shaking his head.

  
“What? How’d that go?”

  
“It didn’t. She didn’t hold up her end of the agreement. I’d brought her lemonade and everything and…no deal. End of the afternoon, not even a hug. Next day at church - that yellow, frock. Acted like she didn’t even know me.”

  
“Uh, women. Yellow frock, huh? She used you.”

  
“That she did. What about you?”

“Me? Oh, I didn’t have a boyfriend till high school, maybe 8th grade. You were way ahead of me.”

  
“Now how can that be? You’re beautiful…” started to head into the teasing litany he knew she disliked, but not really.

“blah, blah, blah. I’ll tell you how,” interrupting. “I was this big” gesturing to her body “in 5th grade. Taller than every boy. My nickname…in soccer” pausing.

  
He raised his eyebrows – anticipating.

  
“Train.” He laughed. “Yeah, as in freight. So me, I was beating up the boys on the playground in 5th grade.”

“Good for you.”

  
“Damn straight.”

 

 

 

“So do you like to read? What do you like to read?” On the way back in the subway.

“I do. I do like to read. Mostly, don’t laugh – history.”

  
“Not laughing. Not my thing. Novels?”

  
“Not really, I tried War and Peace…”

“Well, do just ease in…” sarcasm.

  
“Go big or go home, right.”

  
“There’s that.”

  
“Actually, sometimes when I can’t sleep I listen to music. Sam’s a specialist.” Grinning “He set me up with an ipod and some playlists and everything.”

  
“Ah, you have trouble sleeping?”

  
“Oh yeah.”

  
“Me too.”

  
A tickle “Well, call me sometime, when you’re not sleeping. You can tell me about what you’re reading.”

  
“How ‘bout I text first to see if you’re awake.”

  
“I will be.”

  
“Really? That bad?”

  
“It can get pretty bad. Guess I’m used to it. You?”

  
“Oh God, yeah. Especially certain times of the month if you…well. No sisters I guess.”

  
“So text me.” Smiling.

  
“Bad thing is, I’m usually online if I’m not asleep. It’d be better if I had a book. I lay down and all the things I’ve been wondering about all day, little things I file away to be curious about, all rise up to the surface and I just sit there googling.” She smiled, then…“Hey, Do you have a gmail account?”

  
Paused, not sure what she’d said. Careful. “I have an E-mail account.”

  
Rolled her eyes.

 

 

“So now you need a password,” pecking away on her phone.

  
“A password. OK, Cedar Waxwing.” Her fingers froze on the phone and she looked up, face a frozen blank. “Those birds right? You’re favorite, right? With the masks?” Miming a mask. “That always came to your yard and ate from the mulberry bush?” Had he made that up? Thought the story was from a walk a few days ago, a flock in the park that had reminded her.

  
“Oh!” shook her head. “Tree. Mulberry tree…oh crap. Well, it’s a tree in the states. I guess that’s a British nursery rhyme. Now I have to look that up next time I can’t sleep! You can’t use that. Has to be shorter, have numbers.”

  
“Ok, CedarWax,” Numbers? “Uhh” slid his eyes sideways at her. Terrible peripheral vison. Ooops. Mistake.

  
“Really!” She announced to his face, letting the phone drop to her lap.

  
He faux gritted his teeth and cringed. “You’re how tall?” He asked. She whacked him with a paper. “Shoe size?” trying not to laugh.

  
“Ok” picking the phone back up. “CedarWax is dumb. It sounds like Turtle Wax – some car product,” she’d put her readers on and was glaring at him over the top as he chuckled. “So, SexWax, uppercase S, uppercase W, no space”

  
“Hang on.”

  
“34b, lower case b.”

  
“What is my password?”

  
“SexWax34b”

  
“So if CedarWax isn’t a thing, what is…”

  
“It’s a product. She turned away smugly, still tapping on the phone, setting up his account. “For polishing your surf board.” Wicked smile just in the corner of her mouth.

 

 

 

Play fighting had started somewhere along the way. Related somehow to ‘taking down’ the ‘goon’ and the time in her office that Cedar got upset when he’d slipped up and called her babe one afternoon.

  
“Don’t you ever!” she announced, finger in his face, “Call me that.”

  
“OK” hands up in surrender. “Why?”

  
She huffed. “It’s a diminutive.” Clenching her teeth. Hoping he wouldn’t notice. “As a woman. I don’t like it.” Serious, and unfortunately, in this case, ridiculous.

  
But he noticed. She was standing, as often, on something, in this case the lower rung of the book ladder in her office, in order to be closer to his eye level.

  
He pretended to pretend like he hadn’t looked down, to indicate he was pretending not to notice that she was standing on something.

  
“I am serious.” She stepped down and crossed the office, trying to make up a reason to have done so. Ridiculous.

  
“You are also somewhat…”

  
She whirled, finger raised again “Don’t say it!” fighting a smile.

  
“Look. I never would’ve believed you were just 5’3”

  
“Just!?” Now working on mad just to be mad.

  
“Were 5’3.” Fighting a grin. “Never would’ve believed it.”

  
“I have a tall personality.” Hands on hips.

  
“That you do.”

  
“Smart ass.”

  
“What me? I won’t call you that. Promise.” One hand raised, scouts honor, trying not to laugh.

  
“Listen buster, you know I grew up with two older brothers?” Stepping towards him.

  
“Uh, yeah.” Eyebrows up.

  
“’Bout as big as you too. I have a few tricks up my sleeve. You just watch yourself.” Turned her back on him.

  
Well that was damn irresistible. “Oh, I’ll be sure to watch myself,” pause “babe.”

  
Dammit. If they weren’t in her office... But him hitting the floor would be really loud; Muriel would hear.

  
“Ok, ok.” She turned slowly back to him. “So you are mister perfect man huh? I get it. Golden Ratio and all that too, but here’s what I think. I think I can take you.”

“Oh, oh yeah. Wait, what?” OK, this could get dangerous, she was switching topics, changing tactics, always a danger sign.

  
“Golden Ratio?” Surprised he didn’t know “Phi - the golden ratio. Art, architecture, patterned after the proportionality of the human body. Height, weight, reach. You’ve got me beat. Phi. I can throw a punch at you all day and never land one. But it’s not all about the math.” Doing the lecturing thing again. Intriguing.

  
“Back up, Golden Ratio. Not Golden Mean, or Golden Rule?”

  
“Well sure, those are things. But no, Golden Ratio. I’m talking about fighting. Your reach – arms out. Phi is the ratio to your height, for real. Those of us who are, ‘ahem,’” faux throat clearing “diminutive. We’re at a disadvantage. That reach’s gotta make a huge difference.”

  
Well, sure it did. “But what ratio?”

  
“OK, if we took your height, what 6’0, 6,1? And measured the distance between your fingertips, arms spread out” spread her arms and straightened hands and fingers “and took the ratio of the two. I’d lay money,” waggled her finger, “and I don’t gamble, remember. That we’d get phi, or 1.61.”

  
“Really? That’s a thing.” He loved this. Learning something all the time.

  
“Ask Leonarda Da Vinci, Michael Angelo. Really, it’s a thing. Here.” Was digging in her desk. Pulled out a ruler. “Hold out your arms.” He did. She started at one fingertip with the ruler, began measuring inward. “Now,” she said, as she was moving the ruler mid-center of his chest, “question is.” Looked up at him, dropping the ruler.

  
Eyes flashing. “Are you ticklish?”

 

 

 

One afternoon in her apartment. He was sitting, watching a game and she was stretched out reading, a foot in his lap. He wasn’t really watching, rubbing her foot, gave it a tug. She looked up.

  
“What?”

  
“Nothing,”

  
Let her book fall in front of her. “Nothing?? You want me to ask that question?”

  
That question. A conversation they’d had. The question being “what are you thinking?’ That question being the one that women were always asking and that she hated and hated asking.

  
“OK, no. I’ll tell you. I’m thinking you’re too far away.”

  
She pulled her foot away. “Oh, so you want some a this?”

  
He grabbed for her foot, too slow.

  
“Ha!” flick kicked toward him. “Come and get it!"

  
Swatted at the next kick, missed again.

  
“Ha, think you can take me?? Huh, huh?”

  
‘took him down,’ the goon in the subway. Invoking their joke.

  
Grabbed for real. That reach was worth something – got her foot. Hauled her toward him by her leg.

  
She dug into the couch with the opposite knee, laughing, hanging on to the back of the couch and pulling against him. He reached for her knee and she reversed force, let go, headed his direction, right into the tugging; force flying and fumbling. Now he had to catch her to keep her from flying off the couch. Grabbed her waist. And she landed in his lap.

  
Face to face, her knees on either side of his hips, snowflake leggings, his belt buckle between her legs, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist. Surprising each other.

  
He leaned into the surprise to kiss her. One motion, as natural as a breath and she pulled back but not away, his hands dropping to her ass, pulled, fitting her tight against him. Little gasp as her head went back and his mouth found the lace on her chest, hands peeling the sleeves of the sweater, the straps of the chemise down. She sat straighter, and let the sweater slide, sighing as his mouth moved across the top of the lace.

  
Face to face again, eyes checking in, mouths and hands confirming. The storm had been brewing through the quiet afternoon. Hungry kissing as she threaded her elbows out of the straps as he pushed them down – started with the lace. She shook her head, whispering “Hang on.” Turned up the hem, and started to pull.

  
He stopped her. Whispered into her hair. “Wait.” Looked at his hands on her exposed ribs and started pushing the chemise up. She raised her arms. He watched his own hands pushing the cream and lace up, over skin, negotiating the swell of her breasts, careful of nipples, up her long neck, over her chin; lost his way as her breasts fell free, now pushing the offending clothing over her head, out of her hair, she shook it off an arm, arms and hair down, breasts, skin, nipples, freckles.

  
Soft in his mouth, soft on his hands, soft over muscle. He wanted his mouth and hands and eyes all to be open, to glide over and find and finger every ridge of her. Nothing else. Nothing like this. She was balanced, leaning back, shoulder blades, angel wings, in his hands, chest open rising with breath, head slightly back. Her skin tingled in his mouth, not a taste, a sensation. So alive. He could hear her. Whispers, catches in her breath, his name. She was letting her arms hang but under his hands he could feel the shifting of bone and muscle as she balanced on his lap. She was trying so hard to be still. Also, realized she was gripping with her legs, working to balance, to stay open and let him explore her. Felt that now familiar stab.

  
He shifted them. Side by side now. “You ok?”

  
Green glazed eyes. “Oh yeah.” Kissed him. “Just,” her hand hot under his shirt, “bit of a disadvantage you know?” She wanted his shirt off.

  
“Can’t have that” he breathed, twisting and half sitting, shucked of the shirt, but she was up against him before he had it over his head. Hot skin, soft breasts, flung the shirt and sank into her.

  
“You know, I don’t know…” she was saying. Not sure what she didn’t know. “I like what you did.”

  
“Me too” safe assumption.

“I just. Ugh. Sorry.”

  
What were they talking about?

  
Stomachs together, breasts up against his chest. He was stroking her arm, now.

  
“I don’t know what’s OK.” She said.

  
“What do you mean?”

  
Hiding her face against his neck. “What’s OK to want or do. I don’t want to be too forward or… seem like a hussy.” Tiny snort of a laugh.

  
“Oh, oh good. Nice. Was that word for my benefit? My vintage?” he was asking.

“It communicates”

  
“ You’re not a hussy.”

  
“Well,” sigh.

“Cedar. I,” Wow. “I’m not. I don’t think you’re a hussy.” Kissed her head, hair, eyelids, cheeks, mouth. Trying to imagine what was bothering her. “This is. I love this.” Trying to figure out what to say.

  
“Me too. Oh, me too. I just hate feeling – I mean, I have a hard time feeling, constricted.”

  
Not sure what that meant. “You’re not gonna…What are you worried about?”

  
“I’m not worried. I mean. Maybe I am. Of” pause. “Offending you?”

  
He laughed. “Well, I’m not offended. I promise.” Stroking her hair.

  
“Don’t make fun…” She raised her face. Eyes catching light, wide open.

“I’m not. I don’t get it. Why would I be offended?” Still trying to re-engage his brain. Change tactics? Teasing, maybe? He could give that a try. “You know what. Do your worst. I think I can handle you.” Smiling. Kissed her nose.

  
Something changed.

  
“Oh you do?” Green got greener.

  
Oh, oh. It had sounded like a challenge. Maybe it was nothing. Something changing. More tingling. Maybe. Or maybe it was just that she was now sketching a semi-circle back and forth with her thumb, gentle as a brushstroke painting a sunrise above his navel.

  
“You can handle me? Huh?” She was leaning up and forward; mouth at the corner of his, tiny kiss, tongue tracing his lips, mouth moving to his chin, now shifting her body up, to hover over him, nipples etching fire on his chest, propping herself, making room between them, sucking on the space behind his ear, and Oh No, Oh No, Oh No... he’d actually said that? Handle her? Catching on. He was the one with the handle.

  
Mind reading again. Her thumb led her hand lower in its arc this time. She wrapped it around his outlandishly obvious penis, hard under her fingers. Sighed out loud. Never. Nothing. Ever like this. A swarm of pleasure bees stinging him as she stroked, gently upward. Not right. You want to run from bees, just wanted breathe, to stay there. The heel of her hand down harder, uncomfortable, fingers wrapping again, soft, gently upward again, then down again, the gentle so absorbing. Kept stroking, slowly. Moving him under the denim, gentle strokes. Then she tweaked, thumb and finger and jeans were undone.

  
“Cedar” he breathed. The bees stopped. It had been her, humming against his neck, a soft “mmmm” of pleasure.

  
“You know what?” Chuckle against his neck. “I think I can take you.”


	14. The Needle and The Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope and heart break of condoms and compasses.

The Needle and the Wheel

Steve’s Sweet Afternoon

  
And where had she even come from? Fallen into his life just like a star…a falling star. Stars and angels, this was Christmas. And it felt like Christmas, finally.

  
When had it started? Early November, random call from some obscure branch of DOD who were willing to go with renegade superheroes when they needed some muscle. Nat had gotten the call and rounded them up, knew he was in NY already and so were the assets. Nat, no doubt - connected. He often wondered. Learning. Learning a lot.

  
Now it was December. Falling stars, what had she said? The Geminids? He’d have to ask. She knew so much. What you’d expect from a college professor, he guessed. The asset. Cedar Wexler. He’d been learning so much, about so much. Since when? Pretty much since that first close encounter on the bench over steaming coffee. There was a thing called Rayleigh scattering (he’d learned since) that explained lots of things about light, but didn’t explain the green flash of her eyes that morning and what it had done to him.  
Falling stars, a meteor shower. She’d love that. Where could you go to see the Geminids? What day was that? Had they missed them? He could take her somewhere, anywhere in the world now, to see them. Things were changing, since he’d met her. Or was it him changing? Maybe she’d just opened him up to a whole new world and he’d let it all in; was learning how.

  
Now remembering Nat again. Sheesh, that walk, not of shame – walk of humiliation? Embarrassment? But she’d helped out. Told him it was time to tell Cedar; that he was obviously out of his head over her. And then she’d asked. Wincing at the memory – was he “taking care of her?” That was a helluva conversation. Buttoning his shirt, remembered starting to object.

“Nat, just…” but she’d overridden and gone on. “Steve, she’s a ‘modern woman’ she…”

  
He’d stopped her “Just don’t say…”

  
Grinning she’d cut him off “She has needs.”

  
“Geez, Nat.”

  
But he did love her. That’s just what it was and now…shaking his head at the turns and turns and turnings of recent events, now he could take care of her. Visit to D.C. and the strangest meeting with the Army Pensions Office. He’d taken the compass, and taken a run, a long last goodbye to Peggy. It’d seemed like the right place and felt like the right time, running the monuments. The funeral in London, the mess of the accords, Bucky, Sharon, all the chaos; that hadn’t been a proper goodbye. Miles and miles and miles around, turnings of the earth, the passing of time. It had helped him quiet his head. Quiet his heart. So tonight? Quiet night? Well, maybe not. Instant grin. Geez, embarrassing himself in the mirror.

  
But it seemed everything, and everyone was conspiring for them, not against them…a different experience entirely; not battling all the time; bad guys, big guns, and universal, bureaucratic machinations that seemed to mire things in red tape, complicated agendas, and everything a means to an end. Geminids, the Army Pension office, decades of back pay. Where had that come from? Sam? Did he plant that question out there somewhere? Either way now he could take Cedar to his mountains, the ones in Germany and Italy, Bavaria, the ones that had shaped his adulthood – what there was of it.

  
Having grown up where the highest thing around was the empire state, mountains had been a revelation. But she had been born there. They could visit hers too, North Carolina. If she wanted. She could show him the balds, tell him those Cherokee legends. They could stand there, a place where you could see stars, not just city lights. Maybe tonight they could go up to the roof of her building and look across the city, the lights he knew, he could make up some constellations from the lights: Cedar’s cheekbone, Eye of Cedar, The Lovers.

  
Things were going his way. Tonight would be great. A colleague of Cedar’s had come through with an extra ticket for a show at a club, or, more probably, he’d figured, had planned to go to the show with Cedar herself and most likely made up an excuse not to go so Steve could have the ticket. So he’d checked them out; The Black Keys. He’d looked up their website, listened to some of their music, looked up lyrics. “Howlin’ for You.” He hoped they’d play that.

  
OK, saying good bye at the door; like a teenager on a date. Salute to the team who’d gathered to send him off. Good grief. Patted his jacket pocket. Nat shaking her head. Geez.

 

Cedar’s Bitter Evening

 

Sweet, sweet Tim and Jordie. Right away, and way too soon, her two best internet detectives were on the case. She didn’t like to think of them as “hackers” – that seemed to imply “hacks,” people who had technical skills but no spirit. What Tim and Jordie could do together in that universe, cyberspace, was too elegant to be called “hacking.”  
They’d ‘conjured’ her long ago, found what the patterns of pixels revealed – the DOD connections. They’d seen more of her files than she was happy about, more than was good for them, but they seemed to know how to cover their tracks. What she’d found on her office desk two days ago was a link, and a thumb drive, and instructions on how to use both. Compelled as always by merciless curiosity she followed the instructions and found herself connected to Steve’s secret government file; the bits and bytes, his bio and all it contained.

  
It was hard not to think of it now, staring across the table at him. He’d enjoyed the evening, and so she was teasing him as usual.

“I think you were almost dancing” she observed, sipping her orange juice. He glanced up at her skeptically.  <“We’ll get the band to play something slow”> echoed in her head from that computer feed; his last transmission directly to Peggy Carter about their date, the last thing on his mind before he plowed the plane into the North Atlantic.  
“You were like, bobbing your head at one point.” She smiled.

  
Now he was shaking his head, intent on his plate, used to her teasing. It wasn’t like Stark, whose teasing was taunting, or simply snarking. Barbs intended to get under his skin, stings designed to drive him off. This was something different. Teasing as an invitation, invitation to come on in, stay awhile. Play awhile. Shook his head. He thought he’d been gotten used to being aroused by just thinking about her. Nope.

  
Fair enough. He probably had been bobbing his head at the show. OK. However the last most recent memory, of her legs wrapped around him, was plenty arousing, and still freshest in his mind. After the show they’d streamed out of the crowded club, a new experience for him, and hit the cold air on the sidewalk. She’d pulled him over near a wall objecting about her boots and her feet, and a bad choice to wear heels so high, should’ve known they’d be standing the whole time, leaning on him. “Well,” he’d started to scoop her up. “No, no, no, no, no!” but then she’d spun him and clambered up, piggy-back, laughing. He couldn’t help but wonder about the view everyone else was getting. The skirt was maybe a little longer than usual but… and she did have on leggings …her signature red coat was probably long enough... But all he could really focus on were the legs, reaching around and tucking his hands under her knees, warm, boosting her up. Then, in his ear

“You know what I want now?” She’d whispered. Brain froze. “Breakfast!” giggle in her voice.

  
Ok, was that ‘make me breakfast’ or ‘go back to my place and I’ll make us breakfast’? But then she’d declared

“I know a couple places.”

  
Smiling. “No, no. I know the BEST one.” Turning his head, mouth, toward her head on his shoulder. “My call. You picked the club. My call on breakfast.” Perfect.

  
“Fair enough.” She laid her head against his shoulder, hugged, and squeezed with her legs. The sidewalk tilted. “As long as they have corned-beef hash.”

  
“Wait.” He put her down. Dramatically whirled to face her, hands on her shoulders now, mock seriousness in his eyes. He could play too. “Are you telling me you like corned-beef hash?”

  
“What? Yeah.” Bit surprised. “One of the few ‘Yankee’ culinary inventions I approve of.” Warming to his teasing. Thinking to herself. ‘Mmmmm, he’s learning fast.’ Easy girl.

  
“Wow. When I tried luring you over to my place by telling you I had a grill, and you said you were kind of a red-meat girl - that was one thing.” Wrapped her hand in his, heading toward the rank of cabs. “But this…This is something else. I may be in love with you.” Just practicing.

  
Followed by her chuckling.

She hadn’t known the diner, and they did have corned-beef hash. But they’d had something else as well. The counter was full, and most of the booths; a typical diner in the city that never sleeps. Two tables were being bussed and as he looked around Steve’d noticed someone.

  
“Hey,” small crease between his eyes. “Uh,” frowning, deciding. He was looking at a table of three, one of whom was a lovely blonde. Oh, God help. Could this night get any weirder?

  
“Com’ere” he looked at her and started to weave through the restaurant, not taking her hand but checking she was following.  
One of the men at the table stood and shook his hand, introductions. The blonde, sitting on the inside stayed seated.

  
“Good to meet you.” he was saying, greeting the men in turn “Sharon.” Nodding.

  
They hadn’t been there long, two coffees and a juice, menus still open. His voice like an echo. Then

  
“Cedar,” turning to her. “This is Robert, Joel, and a friend of mine from, well…” quick breath. “Sharon Carter, Cedar Wexler.” Gesturing.

  
Hellos, handshakes. “Cedar, what an unusual name.” Joel smiled, sunny, must be a night owl.

“Dr. Wexler” Sharon reaching. Cold hand. The tall silent Robert nodding, still gangly, not looking more than 20. Who were they recruiting these days? Made her worry for Jordie and Tim. Robert was taking his seat and Steve was confirming something with Sharon, where she was stationed these days. The undertow of deep history was becoming unbeatable. Didn’t feel like she could stay upright much longer. Suddenly stifling, too warm. Breathe. Shuffled out of her coat.

  
“I’m gonna grab a table.” Smiling, waving to them, she headed toward the counter. Why not just stop now? Or just leave? Rude. And the aroma, breathe. And he was back, hand in the crook of her elbow, escorting her to a newly wiped table.

Her arm was warm, thinnest skin in the crook of her elbow, imagined he could feel her pulse beat. Wanted to, everywhere. Shook his head again. She had her heavy coat, but the shirt under was thin. He’d noticed. She’d told him how to dress for the show. Count on it being cold outside and frying inside the club. Sure enough. A great evening, another new thing. The lights and the beat of the music, the crush of people, strangers you found yourself chatting with. Intimacy and energy. And every time she’d turned to shout something into his ear, rising on her toes, hand on him for balance, her breasts soft against his chest. Soft. Two thin shirts soaking up sweat and smoke, ready to be shed. He was hoping.

  
She had been dancing. No surprise. Always danced in the kitchen fixing food, but nice, familiar, and would bump up against him occasionally, or lean back into him and sway. An outfit he’d never seen, a soft black shirt, a patterned scarf, black skirt and different pattern of leggings and always the boots, nails painted and her eyes somehow even more lit than usual. He hadn’t been sure what he was going to think of the club and the concert. Turned out live music was something else entirely. The whole experience. Waiting for more.

  
Breakfast over, they’d ridden the subway back to her neighborhood, laughing as they came through the turnstile where the “goon” had started to pull his gun on Steve. A good memory now. How long ago had that been? Before Thanksgiving, but it felt like it might’ve been a year. They’d seen each other almost every day since the teams’ return from the stupid mission over that weekend. What a wreck he’d been. A prickle, then and he asked.

“That guy, you said his name was Prentice Cooper?” Cedar stopped and turned, out on the sidewalk now.

  
“Yeah, and don’t worry about it. Not your “project,” remember.” Tilting her head. Referring back to when she had been, reminding him of how much more she was now.

  
Didn’t realize he was frowning. The guy, at the club. Staring at her. Old academic enemy, she’d said. Evidently there were such things. She was staring at him now though…Ok that, could wait. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.” Grin.

 

 

Dilemma

 

Tough, seeing the little spring in his step, tilted forward as he walked but trying to keep his pace slow enough for her to keep up. She couldn’t. Just couldn’t. The splinter hadn’t worked itself out. Red, infected, painful; still right there with them. In his pocket. They were approaching her stoop, decision time.

  
“I think we’d better call it a night” she said, avoiding his eyes and starting up the first step. Knowing she wouldn’t get far, she turned to face him in time to see the shadow of surprise, the flicker of confusion.

  
“You OK? You tired?” His face suddenly creased with concern. Sheesh. Please! Yes, she was tired, it was 1:45, but that wasn’t it.

“I just,” she tugged at the collar of his jacket, leather cool and supple in her hands. Closed her eyes.

  
“I promise I’ll be a gentleman.” He interrupted, leaning in to speak low at her cheek and reaching for her, hand on her low back, boot planting on the step beside hers.

  
“Oh,” opening them now. “I know you will. That’s the thing see...” but stopped there.

  
“Well,” What did that mean? Stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers, that comfortable allusion, “Maybe don’t underestimate a gentleman?”

  
“No, no. I appreciate a gentleman. I do, but see…” smiling, but not looking at him. “…I’m idling pretty high tonight.” focusing up beyond the lights. “Don’t want to get my feelings hurt.” Face back to his now, earnest.

  
Wait? What? What was happening? “Cedar, did I…” he began.

  
Ok, this was just going to be this hard. She interrupted. “Steve, sometimes I don’t understand you. You are a gentleman and I wouldn’t trade that but… I also want you to be yourself and; I don’t know what you want.” Eyes, too dark. No light.

  
Really? “Well, OK.” Looking at the treads on the step, back up at her. Those eyes, troubled, like dark water. “Cedar, if you feel like it, I’d like to come up.” Now lacing his fingers into her hair.

  
The words were there, that intimate gesture she loved. It was all there, but so was that slight weight in his pocket, like a talisman, warding her off. Not working. He wasn’t getting it. Change tactics.

  
“So here’s the thing” Interlacing her fingers behind his neck and leaning her hips into his, she drew his face closer to hers. Whispered.  “Tonight, if I let you in,” gesturing with her head to the building behind her, “I’m going to want to _let you in_ …” Garnet nails digging into soft leather. Couldn’t be any clearer than that. His eyes dipped and hands moved to her waist, reaching inside her unbuttoned coat. Raised his head to speak but she went on.

“It’s just gonna be this difficult with me Steve, I’m sorry…” Shit! Well, shit! “I can’t ask you to be who you are without doing the same so…” She let go and stepped away, leaving his hands, and took another step up. Turning, she crossed her arms over her chest. Leaned against the rail and looked at him again.

  
Where was she going? How could this be going wrong?

  
“By this point in a relationship.” She started. Lecture tone, getting distant? Starting to sound like an echo. What the heck?  “Maybe before, most men, would’ve started carrying those little foil packets…” eyebrows up, pitch rising.

  
Wait –

  
“…in their wallet or maybe their” heavy pause, sigh. She closed her eyes, “jacket pocket.”

  
Oh damn.

  
He was looking at the sidewalk now. So not fair. He watched his stomach drop, felt his breath leave. Not like this. I wanted to explain. Had to try.  
“Cedar” stepping up another step, determined to speak but she was reaching for him, half unzipped the jacket and tucked her cold hands in against his chest.

  
“I’m not her. Can’t be. Won’t be.” Tone both pleading and uncompromising.

  
“I don’t want you to be. Never. You don’t have to be. I want…” But now she was starting up again. He could smell the bourbon. How much had she been drinking? He'd lost track.

  
“I’m not someone who goes through pants’ pockets, ok? I’m not. But this -” pointing to her head. “I can’t turn this off!”

  
Captured that pointing hand, kissed it. “Can I just try to explain?” Can I? Can you even hear me? Are you still here?

  
She was shaking her head. No, no. Too far gone. “She’s an icon Steve. That video of you? You know the one I’m talking about? ‘1944, somewhere behind enemy lines.’” quoting verbatim and adding air quotes. “Map spread out on the hood of the jeep and that compass in your hand?? Her picture in the compass?”

  
No. Just no…She was painting it in such stark black and white. The bright horizon receding.

  
“I mean, you couldn’t’ve designed a better metaphor if you’d engineered it! Goddammit! And I can’t even be jealous.” Stopped, looking at him. “The clip from those reels? That stuff’s been on PBS Steve, at the Smithsonian exhibit. Crap, it’s on YouTube.” Put her hand over her eyes.

  
‘An icon.’ That was fair. She was. Had been. He was gripping the railing, looking at the treads on the steps. Where to start?

  
“And it might be different” he looked up at this, but her lips were tight, hurt. “It would be different if you’d been carrying it the whole time…”

  
Damn, damn, damn…

  
“…like an amulet or memento or something. I could understand that better. I, I think?” almost like she was just arguing with herself now. “But you just started carrying it, what, a week? Week and a half ago? Carrying it in your pocket. What’s that about Steve? I promise you don’t need a compass to find your way around me, so that’s not …” stopped a minute. “I, don’t know why she’s here. It’s like being haunted.”

  
That was for sure. All he’d planned to say. Ashes in his mouth.

 

Early Hours Later Days

 

  
He was surprised to see a light left on, even more surprised to find Natasha in the kitchen sitting in front of a closed laptop sipping something hot.

  
“You back?” She asked.

  
“You still up?” He returned, echoing the obvious.

  
“Yeah, well. Time zones, and I didn’t want to disturb the others.” Indicating the bedrooms upstairs.

  
“Ah,” He sat down. “How’s he then?”

  
Natasha smiled into her cup. “Good I guess. He’s trying something new. I don’t know what’s gonna come of it.” Shrugged. He could tell it’d been a nice conversation. She was relaxed, keeping fingers warm around the cup.

  
“You?” she asked.

  
He reached in his pocket and pulled out the compass, put it on the table.  “Cedar can see that of course.” Staring at his betrayer. “And misinterpret it pretty magnificently.”  
Natasha kept quiet. He sighed.

  
“We had a great night. The music was good, the club was fun, different. I enjoyed it. We went to breakfast and were headed back to her place.” Rubbed his face, felt stubble. Rubble. The conversation on the stoop. Wreckage. “It just went sideways.”

  
“I guess I can see why she might be upset, but at the same time.” Pause. “It’s just true that Peggy’s a huge part of who you are. Surely she knows that, can understand.” She tilted her head, trying to imagine whether and how she might understand, then added. “I didn’t know you carried that.”

  
Hung his head. “See, that’s what makes it worse… I don’t always. Sometimes on missions, but not lately. Well,” shaking his head. “Not true actually, and that’s what she noticed. I only started carrying it around again a few weeks ago.” The memory, the walk with Natasha – getting thoroughly schooled. His trip to Washington. He’d gotten the compass from his drawer and taken Peggy.

  
“So wait, why did you start carrying it again?”

  
“Just what she was asking.” Sighed. “So you remember our walk?”

  
Nat nodded. “Guess I added a few things to my pockets that week.” More nodding. Keep talking.

  
“You know, when things got difficult, confusing at S.H.I.E.L.D. I’d go talk to Peggy. Right up to the end. With the dementia…” shaking his head. “More me talking but sometimes she was there. Really there. Since she died... Maybe I’m crazy.” Looking at the compass. “I still talk to her sometimes.” He opened it up now, there on the table, and looked at the needle. Pointing North. “I remembered something she said one of the last times I saw her. She was pretty lucid. Said she just regretted that I hadn’t gotten to live my life.”

  
Natasha sighed.

  
“I know. Pretty harsh. She didn’t mean it that way. I took the compass to D.C. last week. Kind of had my own goodbye, ran the monuments a few times. I remembered that again. Nat, it was like she was telling me to live my life. Now, to be with Cedar. And honestly, looking at this now, with everything that’s happened…S.H.I.E.L.D., the team…” face towards hers in the light. “I’m not even sure I care which way is North,” he snapped the compass shut and spun it on the table between them, “if doesn’t point toward her.”

 

  
Something to Say

 

  
Their walk. Had it been two weeks? Surely not quite. Nat had found him in the kitchen early. “Hey boss, I need a meeting.” Odd. They’d settled on 2:00 that afternoon because he was planning to take Cedar lunch between classes. When he got back Nat was grabbing her coat.

“Are we meeting?” he’d asked.

  
“Yes, we’re talking a walk.” She nodded.

  
“OK, why?” he asked.

  
“You like to take walks.” Ok, true, but usually to be alone. He remembered wondering, and being pretty sure, he knew what this was about. He’d been wrong.  
They’d hit the street in silence. He let Nat take the lead, assuming that’s what this was about. They just kept walking. Finally piped up.  
“Nat look,” realized he was taking the lead as usual, stopped. Well? Plowed on. “I realize I’ve been distracted lately. I was hoping it wasn’t interfering with things, but if it is, you and Sam work it out with Fury or whoever’s coming up with these missions. Next time, one of you take lead.”

  
She looked sideways at him. “What are you talking about?” Kept walking.

  
“Isn’t this what you wanted to talk about?” He’d asked.

  
She’d smiled, that sympathetic but sly, somewhat exasperated Nat smile that signaled so clearly he was being ‘an adorable dope.’ She’d actually said that once.

  
“OK, well, I’m really in for it then, huh? This about me and Cedar?” Set his face, shoulders back, ready to take whatever.

“Yes.” Nodding, grinning. “We’re concerned about you.”

  
“We?”

  
“Yeah, everyone. Me, Sam, Clint and Laura, and Wanda.”

  
“Oh, great. Wanda too?”

  
“Oh yeah, Wanda. It’s a lot Steve, it’s been really fast. So much intensity can be…” choosing her words “intoxicating and fun.”

  
He’d huffed out a loud sigh.

  
“We all like seeing you happy. It’s just…”

“I’m out of my depth? Right?”

  
“Maybe…” smile again. She’d reached inside her jacket. “Here, inside pocket of your jacket.”

  
Oh god, what the? He’d taken the soft leather pouch about the size of a wallet, nearly flat, and done what she said. Said nothing.  
“We just want you to be…”

  
“Seems presumptuous to me.” He’d interrupted.

  
“But it’s not.” She interrupted right back. “See, that’s just the problem. It’s not being presumptuous. It’s being prepared. Don’t smirk at me.” Side eye.

  
He looked at his big feet. Left, right. Left, right. Waiting out the pause.

  
“What’s presumptuous is thinking that she’s got it taken care of somehow. You just assuming she’s on birth control?"

  
“I’m assuming we’d have a conversation.”

  
She’d snorted, laughing. “Well sometimes the conversation happens when a situation happens and that’s not when you want to be running down to the drugstore. Kinda humiliating.”

  
“and this is not humiliating?” Flat tone, but barely concealing the smile. She knew he didn’t mind the coaching too much.

  
“Look, really its…gracious…right? Like you’re not assuming anything. You just want to make sure you can take care of whatever.”

  
Well, he’d, never thought of it that way.

 

  
Late Night Thoughts

 

  
Nat cleared her throat and got up to put her mug away. He realized she hadn’t said anything else. Did now.  
“What are you going to do?”

  
“Said we’d talk tomorrow.” Wondering how that was going to go. Then he remembered – insult to injury. “Oh, then Sharon showed up.”

  
“What?” Nat turned from the sink. “Sharon Carter?”

  
“Yeah, that was crazy. She and some guys, clearly agent’s - at Wally’s.”

  
“That’s odd. You should text her.”

  
“Sharon?” His mind still stuck there for some reason.

  
“No! Cedar. You should text her now.”

  
“Hang on,” leaning forward over the table now, fiddling with the compass. “Sharon called her Dr. Wexler.” Looked at Nat. Continued, eyes questioning. “I didn’t introduce her that way, and Sharon’s not DOD. How’d she know that?”

  
“Beats me.” Shrugging, “I really don’t know. Honest. I’d tell you if I did.”  He picked up his phone.  “No, no. Don’t lead with that.”

  
“Right…” Shaking his head. Then starting to type. Clumsy.

\- Can I bring you breakfast? 2:23  
*God no 2:24  
*Plan to be hungover 2:24  
*well past noon 2:25  
\- What are you doing? 2:25  
*Great think about my neighborhood  
you can always find a angry  
Italian woman to drink with 2:27

*Killed a red 2:27

*Going to yoga at 11:30 2:29  
\- Lunch then? 2:29  
Can I make you lunch? 2:29

 

\- How do you know  
Sharon Carter 2:33

 

\- ?? 2:40  
*Welcome Steve 2:40  
\- Thanks. Nice… 2:40  
*she distracted you or you  
would’ve picked that up sooner  
What’s that about 2:41  
\- You first 2:41

*goodnight Steve 2:43  
\- See you tomorrow? 2:43  
*tomorrow 2:43


	15. Bacon Sandwich - The Needle and the Wheel pt. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Cedar finally find their way.

Bacon Sandwich

 

Maybe he was too early. Sitting on the steps, stooped a bit against the cold, brown paper bag sitting on the treads of the steps between his feet, he felt like anything but a “superhero.” Hands shoved into pockets. If she was going to yoga she should be leaving the building sometime soon. Heard the door click. Didn’t look.

  
A familiar boot appeared beside his hip, the other on the other side. She sat on the step above him, flash of red coat in his peripheral vision. Cold air in through his nose. Felt her settle; head rest against the middle of his back, knees hugged him. Deep sigh. Just a few moments. Just a little peace.

  
“You checking pockets yet?” He asked, looking out across the square toward ‘their’ coffee kiosk.

  
“Steve.” Quiet. “What I said last night…”

  
Interrupting, “gave me a lot to think about. And plenty to talk about. If you’ll let me.” If you’ll just let me.

  
She shifted her head. Cheek against his back now, he could hear her voice better. Low. “Of course I’ll let you.” Deep sigh. Nothing.

“What smells so good?” she sounded tired.

  
“Ah, soup, and oh,” reaching into the bag and pulling out something wrapped in tin foil, handing it over his shoulder. “Sam’s special hangover cure.”

  
“Mmmm” Sounds of unwrapping. Wanted to see her, watch her, check her face. Couldn’t’ turn. What if he didn’t like what he saw?

  
“Bacon”

  
“Grilled bacon and mayonnaise, ideally avocado but…” now he was sounding like the professor.

  
“Fat and carbs. OK, makes sense” Sounds of a bite. “Oh my god.” Head back onto his shoulder. “That’s good.”

  
Reached into the bag again. Handing over his shoulder again.

  
“Oh, electrolyte water. You…you’re just…”

  
“Thoughtful?” fishing. Still staring across the square.

  
Sigh “Nice. Too nice. Nicer than I deserve.” Pause. “I’m not actually…very nice.” Clarifying.

  
“No. Nope. You’re really not.” Beat, eyes back to the treads between his feet. “Not why I’m here though. -Nice. It’s overrated. You love people Cedar, your people. Jordie, Tim, the neighbors.” Me? Could I be one of those?

  
Sniff. She was getting up.

  
Facing each other now. No make-up. She looked rough. Lines around her eyes, dark circles. Bacon sandwich in one hand, water in the other, yoga bag and another over her shoulder.

  
Holding up the paper bag. “Make you lunch?” He asked.

  
Turning her face away. Pulled keys from her pocket. Stripped one off. Hadn’t looked at him yet. “If I’m gonna make it, I’ve gotta…” another sniff. Hanging there, the sentence, her whole self.

  
Held out his hand. She pressed the key into it, started turning. “Cedar,” she stopped. Turned back. Sank her head into his chest.  It was this simple; this simple. Kissing her hair. “I love you.”

  
Sigh, sniff. Light push off and she turned to go.

 

 

“Sam?”

  
“Yeah? What’s up man, how’s…”

“What’s BTW?” interrupting.

  
“What? Are you in an elevator?”

  
“What? No, stairwell. What’s BTW. In a text. All caps.”

  
“By The Way.” Silence. “It stands for ‘by the way’ things OK, man?”

“Huh. Heck of a ‘by the way.’ Oh, yeah. I, uh, I think it’s gonna be OK.” Staring at the text.

  
*BTW – I love you 11:07

Muscles stretched to fatigue, hot water washing away the grime and even some of the guilt. Hot soup, lentil, with ham added from ‘Sandros, just like she liked it – he knew. He’d asked. She still felt warm with shame, washing the plates, when he disappeared.

  
Music came on. She smiled, relaxed a bit. Had taught him how to use Spotify. Turning away from the sink, she took in the scene. His jacket draped over a chair in the living space, he was moving to the couch now, wearing the gray waffle weave she liked. Tricky.

  
Looked up at her. “Come over here.” Settling on the couch. Keep it cool man. She looked a little spooked.

  
Sigh. So fully inhabiting that corner of the couch, charcoal gray somehow picking up that blue in his eyes, denim, boots, his unofficial uniform.

  
“Cedar?” tone asking. Then, “I wanna talk to you.” Pause. “Please.”

  
Ugh. Compass still in his jacket, no foil packets. Is this a break up? Didn’t feel like a break-up, the air in the room, the way his hand looked, resting on the sofa.

  
“I wanted to talk last night.” He was studying her now. She changed after the shower. Skirt again, as usual, boots, leggings, and a brown sweater buttoned halfway, cream chemise underneath. Shifting on her feet. A good sign?

  
“Look, this would really be a lot easier if you’d just come over here.” Stretched out his long arm across the back of the sofa, crossed his ankle over his knee, creating space. Couldn’t be inviting her to crawl into his lap any more clearly. Then, again…“Please.”

  
Two pleases. Ugh. She was awful. This was different. So much raw vulnerability. That was it. He looked vulnerable. Damn heartbreaking. She bent and started unzipping a boot. Silence. Pulled it off, unzipping the other.

  
His chest, tight, started loosening.

  
Now for the wise crack. “Just as long as you don’t take that shirt off.”

  
A flood washed over him, warm, the return of some ease. Her eyes came up. He’d started taking off his boots too. Was now stretching out on the sofa.  She straightened back up. Stopped. Oh, oh. Too much? “C’mere” motioning to her.  Wary look. She didn’t have much of a poker face either when it came down to it.

  
God, what had it been? What all had she said to him? Asked him what did he want? Couldn’t he just be himself? Comment about his ‘iconic ex’? Had she said that? Saying she couldn’t, wouldn’t compete. And then ‘you don’t need a compass to find your way around me.’ Good God. Why was she so mean?

  
“Cedar. Where are you? What are you doing?”

  
“Close your eyes.”

  
Eyebrows knitting. Not closing his eyes. He slid further down on the couch, slightest shake of his head, little smile, motioning again. DAMN. OK, then.  
She stepped behind the kitchen counter. Sounds of shimmy-ing, clothes rustle. Oh, no!

  
“Oh,” himself, laugh. Now closing his eyes. Why? Imagining. “So, the shirt comment. Kind of a Brer Rabbit ‘don’t throw me in the briar patch?’ thing?”

  
“Wow, OK” heard her walking toward the couch, voice warm. “Maybe have a chance here after all.”

 

She read him so right. How nice. How nice. She’d shed the stockings. How nice to be known. Her legs. God he loved those legs. Finally ready to admit he’d noticed them the first night, not just because they were at ‘eye level’ from where they were sitting in the auditorium, what he’d told Sam. Of course he'd noticed them because they always looked so perfect in her clothes. And sure, her neck was irresistible, and her collarbones called to him like they needed his attention. All of her. He wanted to forget his hands in the softness of her, of her breasts, and all of her, and feel her up against him. But her legs.

  
Crammed together, side by side, facing each other on the couch, slogging through the swamp, explaining Peggy and the compass and wanting to live his own life now, with her, that he didn’t want to follow any compass that pointed anywhere other than toward her. At one point reached and pulled the leather bag from his coat. No, no foil packets. She winced. Assumptions? This time she’d done the assuming. She hid her face in his now bare chest. Finally, through the talking they’d rolled. Carefully scooping, shifting weight. She’d cooperated, then anticipating, boosted herself up. She was stretched on top of him, head resting on his shoulder, slow-breathing against his neck.  She was small enough that he could reach the tops of her calves, the crease behind her knees, fit his palms around her thighs. Tiny whimper that he knew wasn’t distress and she settled again.

  
“You know I’ve always loved your clothes?” murmuring down toward her ear. Relax Cedar, relax. Deep breathing.

  
“Mmmm” Letting him find his way. Her heart pummeling her.

  
“The dresses and skirts,” hands warm on her legs. “Tough not to imagine…”

  
Watch, watch, watch the mouth! She ordered herself. Wiggled closer to him. Tightened her legs, pushing the bottoms of her feet against the tops of his, firm muscles raising into his palms.  “You know.” She started. Swallowed, tried to go on. Tears? Really? Leaking... say it. “I sure wouldn’t mind your doing a lot more than imagining.” Half a whisper. Tucking herself even closer.

  
That was it.  Hands up the backs of her legs, fingers sliding over the slick fabric around her ass, finding the lace at the waist band. Voice strangled “Cedar?”pulling her against him, rucking up the skirt, bringing the caress back around to her thighs then around her curves again.  She tugged herself to sitting, straddling him again. Too hot, itchy sweater, hair coming down. Started working on the buttons.

  
“Hey, hey, hey” Hands over hers.

  
What the hell? Ready to swear. Please!

  
But he was leaning up, tipping her back, one arm behind her, rising up off the couch with her in his lap like she weighed nothing. Shifting, tucking. Now she was on her back at the other end of the couch and he was over her, a knee on the sofa between hers, his other hand still over the buttons. “I just really wanted to do that myself.” He breathed.

 

 

Clothes everywhere. Still had his jeans on. She was stripped to underwear. Now navigating the odd corner apartment she loved with its freaky open stairs heading up to her lofted room.  Two steps above him, leading the way, the dent in the small of her back had become irresistible. He wrapped his arm around her, leaned to kiss the spot just above the lace waist band of the sailor striped underwear, then kept kissing straight up her spine, hands locking onto her hips.

  
'Breathe, keep breathing, keep breathing.'  She was chanting to herself. Behind her a solid wall of warm, breathing, beating, muscle with busy hands. Stay standing, stay standing, stay standing, the mantra changed, was competing with the desire to move, and bend, and push. She arched her shoulders back against him, canting her hips backward toward him, fanning her ass against his crotch. They hung there in the push-me-pull-you of desire as he pressed his forehead against the back of her neck, and pulled her hips hard up against him.

She was a miracle of muscle and curve and softness that didn’t end; knobs of bone, rising out of terrain he’d never experienced.  Couldn’t keep his hands or mouth off of her.  She didn’t mind.  She liked it. Borders everywhere, spine dividing, or curves developing, hairline at the base of her neck, rib cage that swelled into softness.

What’d he said on the couch? Explaining what he wanted. Find all the freckles? Connect all the dots? Map the beauty marks; more specifically, with his mouth. Explore her? Arching that way, she focused on breathing, opening her chest so he could reach, caress as much of her torso and breasts as he needed. His hand stroked lower, pinkie snagging the lace of her underwear, paused, reversed, two fingers now, lower, slipping under the lace. Her breath quickening, spots floating. “Explore her.” he’d said. Sway, stairs unsteady. He wouldn’t let her fall, but on his next pass, four fingers intruding below that delicate band and its tiny coral bow.

  
“Hang on.” She stopped his hand with hers. Held it there. Steadied herself against him.

  
“Cedar” voice low, tight. Almost panting at her neck. She felt his jaw muscles working against her temple.

  
“I just. Hey,” laughed, breath. “You go there now and we don’t make it up the stairs.”  

He shifted his hands to her rib-cage, helping her re-balance. “By all means.” Husky whisper and a light push to steady her to standing.

  
“Got an idea” as she straightened up. Reaching behind, tweaked the button of his jeans. “It’s 47 by the way, standard. Every pair you’ve ever worn that I’ve seen.” Waistband in one hand, working the zipper down with the other. He’d rested his mouth against her hair, seemed to be concentrating on breathing. Jeans started to slide. Between them they worked them down – something she’d wanted to see, or do, watch those jeans disappear; now just wanting them gone. Heard fabric on the stair, his body shifting, imagining him stepping out of the pile of discarded denim. Looking for her joke – something about the Full Monty, but her breath was gone. She’d never even seen his legs.

  
That mind reading again – or just the inevitable. Left knee and thigh against brushing against her as his foot joined hers on the stair. Her hand on his knee, starting to pet and stroke, darker hair than she’d imagined. He tugged her against his erection and gently head-butted the base of her skull. Indicating ‘up.’

 

He didn’t know whether to lie. Not his first instinct. But it might’ve been nice to say something normal like “So this is your room.” But he’d seen it dozens of times, and her asleep in it, when they’d been surveilling – knew where the cameras were. Had established a routine with Nat for disabling them when he came to the apartment – audio and video. That was the deal, when he was there.

  
Hadn’t thought of the mirror though. Oh, no. Reminded him of every bad porn film or romance, but now he understood why. Held her arm, pulled her back in front of what looked like a genuine antique dresser.

  
“Oh, no. Steve” Sounded like genuine embarrassment.

  
“But, just. Wait.” He was mesmerized – pulling her in front of him, still a little awkward about the boxers, but more than eager to look at her.

  
She was trying to turn toward him, away from the glass. Geez! At least the overhead wasn’t on, just afternoon light, cold white, winter light coming in. Not flattering. Belly, small breasts sagging more than they used to, oh, and some cellulite. Nice. Didn’t seem to be seeing what he saw though…

  
Oh, well. OK, she could look at him in the mirror. Smirked, maybe she wasn't so diminutive, shorter but they looked nice together. She reached up and behind her, to find his shoulders, neck, face. Had the effect of lifting her breasts a bit. Not so bad.

  
In the mirror, his eyes were watching his hands. Amazing, perfect. He could see her and touch her all at the same time. One hand on her hip, the other, exploring, open palm, caressing. She watched his face reflected; concentration, desire painting a flush on his lips and cheeks. Swoon. Full swoon. For real swoon. Had to lean against him. Loose erection poked her in the back. Laughed, couldn’t help it.

  
Looked up. Now he was hiding his face from the mirror, tucked it into her mussed hair. “Ha. OK, so now who’s embarrassed?” She wiggled up against him.

  
Eyes back on hers in the mirror, tone so serious, voice low. “How? Cedar, how could you be embarrassed?” Saw him looking down over her shoulder, reach under her raised arm, flat palm, spread fingers. He started etching circles into his palm with her erect nipple.

  
She really couldn’t stand up much longer, started to say so but then noticed…and asked. “Baby?” slipped out, pitch rising. His eyes back to hers. Wait. He was. She snuggled closer, back against his belly and chest. Reaching, found his face and watched him lean his cheek into her palm and close his eyes.  “You’re trembling.” She whispered.  Felt and saw the shape of a smile in her palm.

  
“Yeah, well.” Quiet voice. Hands stilled now, wrapping her rib-cage. Shifted his face into her hair again. Big sigh. “I’m kinda terrified.”

  
His sigh, that confession, took her breath. “But – what? Steve? Of, of this?? Of me? Not of me? Of…”

  
“So maybe D. All of the above?” Now finding his way through her hair to kiss that favorite star behind her ear.

  
“But honey” protesting gently, all the southern coming back in this intimate space. “This is just me and you, and you know… you, you fight off all the biggest, baddest guys and space aliens and…”

  
To her ear, so serious “…and I don’t much care how they feel about me.”

  
OK, hmmm.  She found a drawer-pull on the dresser with her toes, propped her foot, re-balanced. Her idea had her breathing hard already. Watching in the mirror, she put her right hand over his, finger for finger, started guiding him toward her center.  Vision flickered. “Fair enough.” She began. He was tensing, reacting, but not raising his eyes.  
“Just so you know.” She couldn’t look anymore. Closed her eyes. Guiding his fingers, hand, past the lace, past the coral bow, lower and lower, between her parted legs,took a breath and pushed his fingers down, between, just inside. “This is how I feel about you.”

 

Peaches. Fresh peaches. Once. Maybe he'd been 10 years old. Firm flesh, juice all over his face. Three men in a beaten up truck, driven all the way from South Carolina to their neighborhood, selling the fruit cheap, before it rotted. Women and kids out in the street, surrounding the truck, passing out fruit. He’d never had a fresh peach, certainly not one warm from a long drive in the sun, never that ripe either, flesh so different from an apple, slick and sweet and firm in his mouth. Like nothing else, until now. He’d eaten three.

They were on the bed, clambering for each other, the stupid condom, and she rolled onto her back, pulling him. He planted a knee between hers and knocked her legs open with the other. Instinct, surprise. She practically shouted.  Checked her face, just desire again, but loud. She pulled him down by the hips, arching and twisting. Felt her heel plant against his back.  Exchanging names and breath, all urgency.  Then - peace.

  
He hadn’t known he was a sea creature. Poor, poor thing. Flailing all his life on land. But now, inside her, he could move. Complete ease. And the cacophony had stopped. The screeching and screaming along all his nerve endings had turned to singing. Or was that her? Peace, but no stillness. This oceanic truce required movement. Here was a dance he already knew. A partner seemingly made for him.

  
So full. So open. All at the same time. No way, no possible way to manage all of him, but trying and trying to make room, accommodate and surround as much of him as possible. All trembling now, and gasping, and movement, treading desire, every move stirring up more and more. He was gasping, straining, had lost himself. Battering ram. She felt it, got it…why someone would call it that, had named it such. Caught between the exchange of his and hers excitement and the need to be a little easier.

  
“Steve,”

  
He stopped, caught, fighting. “Sorry I…”

  
“No. No. It’s OK, its OK it, I just…” panting “Hang on. I just, I just… need to get my breath.” Her face, pink, lips parted and dry from breathing hard, eyes wide, evening sun catching green rims.

“You look concussed”

  
“I might be if we were any closer to that headboard.”

  
“Sorry, I…”

  
“Shhhhh” smiling. Trying to get her breath while also whispering “Not sorry, not sorry, not sorry.” Leaning up, she bit at his lip, tugging, hungry. Then flopped back, palm on his cheek. “I just... Maybe there is such a thing as being a little too excited?” Did she mean him or her? Closed her eyes. “Give me a sec. Just need to relax.”  Took a long, deep breath.

  
He rested his forehead on the pillow beside her head, cheek against hers. Hurting her? Had he hurt her? Been too rough? This need to move. The sensation of her all around him; feeling her breathing, feeling her breath from the inside. No way he could stay still. Try to relax, relax. Breathe. Breathe.

  
Then a sigh. Release. He sank further into her, centimeters or centuries. He didn’t know. She voiced a sighing note, her head went back, she turned her cheek. Pleasure like a punch. Couldn’t see her face, only the turned cheek. Kissing her neck, her jaw. Wanting to find that note again, moving gentler this time, sinking inside her, deeper, a deeper groan. Her head rolled the other direction, another gut punch. The pleasure infectious. He slid his arms under her, behind her shoulders, under her tailbone. So alive, she was vibrating. She curled against him, entirely off the bed now, all in his arms; rhythm of breathe and sighs.

So close, she could only focus on his jawline. That dizzying plane, muscles working in his shoulder. Blue of his eyes. Felt her breath catch. She grabbed his hips; hugged her legs around his rib-cage, curling and curling toward him, pelvis licking flame, bones nearly scraping, curling against him.  He tried to stay present, concentrate, and breathe. “Shhhhh” he offered to her ear. Felt her struggling again; struggle to relax, to join him, to sink deep again. He adjusted his arms, let her stretch, bellies together, warm skin, vital organs, beating against each other.

  
Mesmerized, watching her face, now. Giving her pleasure almost more exciting than anything. She threw her arm across her face. “Hey, where are you?” Hadn’t realized he’d just been still and watching.

  
Where was he? Adjusted arms again, teasing, easing her out long again, stretching her. Sank deep. Heard his own breath, and groan. Mouth forcing her chin up as he kissed her neck. Thumbs stroking her sides. Sliding. Pulling away, her arms came up and around. Eyes on his. Green flash, sun going down. Lost it. Kissing her lips, wanting her as wet there as between her legs. Breathing hard again, and she was gasping.

  
Relax, relax, relax. But the tossing rhythm was too much. He’d heard a soldier, a marine, talking about training in the ocean, being caught in the undertow, the only thing saving him being tethered to his company. No saving him, this undertow was too strong. Rushing, just like waves, broke over him.  "Cedar,” Like the breath knocked out of him. Like a cloth wrung out. Climax? More like racing to the top, and over, and having the world fall away. His heart was pounding them both. Muscles seizing and relaxing, pounding inside her.

His heartbeat shook them both, sweat on his skin, salty, smell of semen. She licked his neck, was stroking his face, found his mouth. Kissing deep, open, earnest, sated. He swiped his forehead against the pillowcase and started to move.

  
“No, no.” She held his hips. “Stay.”

  
“I’ll crush you.”

  
“No, physics. I promise. My pelvic bones, really. I can hold you, here, like this. Until you start falling asleep.”

  
“Asleep? Are you kidding me” kissed her mouth, cheek, eyelids. “King of Insomnia, remember.”

 

 

“Ugh! Steve” pushing. “Baby! Ugh- off!” Shoving, finally rolling him off. Side by side, holding hands as he regained consciousness.

  
“Wow, I did fall asleep.” He mused at the ceiling.

  
“Not only that,” teasing tone back.

  
He smiled. “What?”

  
“Well, Steven Grant Rogers. I do believe I heard you take the Lord’s name in vain. At least twice.”

  
He could hear the smirking. Smiled, closed his eyes and squeezed her hand. “In vain nothing. That was Praise and Thanksgiving.”


	16. Naked Yoga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good morning after goes bad.

NAKED YOGA

“Naked yoga? Really?” He mused delightedly, now coming back down the stairs.  
“I’m hardly naked” Cedar exclaimed. She was wearing what she called ‘boy shorts’ and a sports bra. The yoga mat was spread between the living space and the kitchen counter. She was pressing up and back, delightfully, what looked to him simply like navy underwear in the air, and rotating her face toward him from between extended arms, palms flat on the mat.  
“Well,” he paused appraisingly, “near enough and” longer pause, appreciating. “Maybe for my birthday?”  
Pushing harder through her heels, trying not to grit her teeth, deep breath. Pulling shoulder blades together and settling into Downward Dog, she muttered “Wow, spend one night and you’re quite the cheeky bastard in the morning.”  
Oh oh, too easy. He was already coming around her, heading to the kitchen for more coffee. ‘Cheeky,’ she’d said it. Too easy. He swatted her ass hard enough to hear the slap and trotted quickly past her arms. He was almost to the counter when he took the hit; had to catch himself, both of them, against the sink. She’d landed surprisingly high, and hard. Her knees were clamped against his ribcage and she had him in a legit choke hold.  
“Geez! Did you jump?” Exclaimed, laughing and wrapping his hands behind to grab her.   
Grunt. She flexed her bicep just to demonstrate that she knew how to use the hold then let go, sliding down his back. Another grunt, half laugh.  
He turned around. She had an arm out, palm up - signaling truce. With the other she was hugging her left side, holding her ribs. She’d knocked the breath out of herself.  
“Cedar. Good grief.” Still laughing, holding his hands out, shaking his head in exasperation. First a concussion, now this.

Gasp. “Course I jumped.” Another gasp. “Brothers remember? Two of them, both about as big as you. One of them taught me that choke hold to use on the other.” rolled her eyes. “They aren’t” still hugging with the arm across her ribs, bending at the waist to get her breath “Quite as…solid as you though.”  
“Yeah, well.” Smiling. “Maybe don’t crack my ribs next time.” The teasing.   
Right back at him. “You liked that grip well enough last night.” Eyes on his, and twinkly. “And this morning.”  
“True”…where to go with this?  
“Riding lessons, in high school.” She was explaining. “Competitive in college. Gotta shower.” She had turned and was heading up the stairs. “And yes,” anticipating the sass that he really wouldn’t have been able to muster. “horses.”

Hard knocking at the bathroom door. “Yeah” he called from the shower. Had chosen to avoid the pearlescent blue shampoo iconized by the picture of the lady with flowers in her hair or flowers as her hair. No fancy body wash, but two brown bottles marked ‘lavender’ and ‘eucalyptus.’ Luckily plain ole’ Ivory soap. Using that. Understood what was happening as soon as the door started opening.  
“Steve!” urgent tone. “Your phone!”  
“Oh!” The shower nozzle was the kind you detached, nice for a taller person, but now he was juggling. He swatted back the curtain, tipped his head back to rinse out the soap while quickly swapping the nozzle to his left hand, and heard a gasp as he was saying “Toss it to me.”   
Shaking water out of his eyes, right hand extended now free, he saw Cedar. She was standing in the doorway, in his gray waffle weave, half her face dripping, half the shirt spattered, and sputtering…  
“Uhhh, moron. You’ll ruin your phone.” Surprised, indignant.  
He burst out laughing, even through the blaring. “Waterproof. Here! Toss it here.”  
“I’m not!” Tossed it and turned for a towel.  
He thumbed in the code, silencing the alert. Rinsed more fully and stepped out, dripping, onto the soft rug. He was reading the text when a fluffy blue towel hit him in the head, half wrapping his face. Laughed again “thanks!” Huh, a meeting, and soon. Texting back  
S- Don’t really have clothes for that  
@Nat – coming by courier should be there soon  
That was genius. Ok then. He toweled his hair and then toweled and wrapped the phone in a separate, dry towel as trained and, leaving it on the counter, walked into the bedroom. 

“Sorry about that,” chuckling again then looked up.  
She was sitting cross-legged on the far corner of the bed, staring out the window. Double take at her posture and he was frowning.

“Hey,” settled beside her. “What’s up?”  
“Well, I don’t know do I?” turned and hugged him, swiped the rest of the water off his back with the dry sleeve of the shirt. Laid her head on his shoulder. “What have we done?”  
Oh, oh.  
“How does this work?” her voice sounded small.  
“Oh” realized, the phone. “It was just an alert. It went off like that because I hadn’t answered a text marked critical. Needed to code in. It’s nothing.” He kissed her damp hair.  
“Well,” Raising her eyes now, she rotated further into him, leg across his lap, causing turmoil under his towel. He breathed deep and pulled her closer, onto his lap.  
“But sometime it’s not going to be nothing, right?”  
No denying. Studied her eyes. Darker.  
“So,” looking over his shoulder, not at him, “I didn’t say it yesterday or even last night,” bit of a smile now, “or even this morning, but” tracing a water drop down his chest, “I love you.” Eyebrow wrinkles gathering, pulled back a bit to focus on his face. “I do love you and I can count the times I’ve said that on one hand so…” sigh. Head against his neck, hiding her face again, then abruptly, “OK, I gotta get going” rising, turning.  
“Hey, hey. Hang on.” Caged her gently with long arms. She let him settle her back down, facing him. “That’s not how we stay safe.”

“What?”

“As a team. That’s not how we stay safe…running away.” Eyes on hers. “We stick together and we stick to the plan.”  
Deepest green back at him. “Do we have a plan?”  
Sigh. Smile. Resting his forehead against hers. “Yes. How about ‘stick together’ is the plan?”

Too weird. The meeting with the team and whoever from wherever was at ‘their,’ his and Cedar’s coffee shop on the edge of campus. They took the subway together. Having time, he walked her to her building. It was tough, students, faculty milling around; not sure how to handle any of this, but really wanting to hold her, kiss her goodbye, hold that red coat close, breathe in the smell of the blue shampoo, or the lavender and eucalyptus. This was not the place or the time they’d decided and she was saying something…  
“I’ve always liked ‘via con Dios.’ You know, “Go with God.’” Just like she was chatting with some colleague or friend, startlingly casual.   
Jamming his hands in his pockets, scanning the crowd as always. She wanted so badly to climb inside that jacket, keep him from going wherever he was going next; wanted to ask him not to go, wanted another night, or afternoon, or string of them, at least the promise of lunch or drinks later. Nope, not in this life. No promises. Who ever knew? Like the only good line in that awful Benjamin Button movie “you never know what’s comin’ for you.”   
Not answering he just said “Well, I guess this is your stop, Doc.”   
First time he’d ever called her than, used a title, just like she never called him ‘Captain’ or even ‘Cap’ like the others, couldn’t bring herself to. Titles, one of the clear sociological purposes, distancing. Is that what he wanted now? Distance? Eyes finished scanning the crowd, were back on her now. Nope. That blue. Not distancing. He was undressing her with those eyes. She felt a new wave of swoon, a new depth of heat.  
She took a breath, decided, and unzipped a pocket of her bag. “Well. Tell you what,” hilarious really, delicious irony. She was handing him a card and palming something else. Those communicative eyebrows went up, he extended his hand. “Let’s stay in touch, ok?” Under the card, something small, warm from her hand, metal. She could see it under the card without looking. He grinned. Magic.

Deep breath. Man. OK. Looked around, couldn’t resist, half a step toward her but not looking at her face, not risking those eyes. Held out the card, miming studying the numbers there. Quietly. “So, does this mean” ok, get this right, man… “I’m allowed to come to your apartment and …” look at her now? He did. Lashes shading emeralds. “Let myself in?” Couldn’t hold the gaze, especially when she snorted. What?  
OK, learning to play then? Nice. Laughing. Wouldn’t beat her though. Pulling in a big breath, that laugh had his attention. He looked a little confused.  
“No!” she followed up, rolling her eyes. Beat. Shifting, as if to move something in her purse, but closer to him. Deliberate whisper, eyes capturing his. “It means that you are invited to let yourself in.” Swung away. Heading to her office. Hoping he had sense enough not to watch her long. Bad luck.

Not breathing. Gripped the key.

Four short blocks to the coffee shop. Over instantly, not even long enough to decide which memory to replay. Was he early, glance at his watch. No. Huh. Was he whistling? Yes. Stop that! Grinning, oh geez. Pull it together. Tried for some composure before he crossed the street.  
I’ll never be tired again…I’ve never slept that good. Pushing open the door. Man! Concentrate. Coffee aroma. Coffee this morning, her above him in the sunshine, bare skin. She was so warm. Hey! Physically, intentionally shook his head to try and clear it and bring himself into the present. Looked around. Students, faculty, none of the team. So odd. Should he get a coffee?  
Oh, noticing he was still gripping the warm key. Opened his left palm. Shiny warm key, shiny warm feeling. How would his mom have described it? This feeling? ‘Cat that ate the canary?’ Cat with cream in his whiskers…oh no. Stop. That’s not the right direction. Easy. Eyes down at the key again. Smiled. Couldn’t resist thumbing it up in the air, spinning, flashing, catching the light, eyes following as it rotated up in the sunshine.  
And there they were, right in his sight line now as seen through the arc of the spinning key - Sam, teeth white in a grin-styled grimace, beside him, big brown eyes of Sharon Carter. What the? How had he not seen them? Key still rotating, downward now. Snatched it from the air, dug in his pocket for his others and spun it onto the ring, focused on the floor and moving toward them.  
Quick review. Who? Sitting in the rounded booth: Natasha, Wanda, Sam, Sharon Carter and, what was his name? Ross? An extra, still steaming coffee on the table beside Nat. Lifting his eyes, slid into the booth beside her, across from Sam and Sharon. “Sorry I’m late,” and stupid, and oblivious and…  
“You’re not.” Nat stepping up. “We just got here. But Sharon and, you remember Everett Ross? Are on their second meeting so…” Thank God for Natasha. What did and didn’t she know about him and Sharon? Quick look at Sam. Eyes away now, shaking his head, staring at the table.  
“Ok, catch me up.” 

“So this, party…” Four minutes and he was fuming.  
“Christmas at Columbia. All the deans of departments host them. Smaller departments sometimes combine.” Ross, abrupt.  
“Yeah, I got all that, but that’s all you can tell us?” Steve getting impatient.  
“Best for everyone” Ross now interrupting.   
“But Cooper…” clarifying. “You want us there, why? Surely you don’t expect him to show up?”   
“No, no.” Ross began, interrupting Sharon who’d started to answer. Natasha saw Steve shoot her a glance and Sharon risk an eye roll, half apologetic, half exasperated, about Ross. OK, that was only likely to make Steve angrier.  
“He’s a Person of Interest, is back in town…” Ross re-hashing. “Defries and Wexler in the same place, the earlier, attacks on them, Cooper in town – it smells funny.” Ross declared.   
Now Sharon interrupted, trying to redirect. “Something could happen. We think Dr. Wexler might be in danger.”  
“or colluding!” Ross interjected, shooting her a look.  
“Colluding!?” Steve, loud whisper – too aware of where they were. What a terrible place to hold this meeting. “DeFries is the one Cooper visits in the states. Guilt by association? How does Cedar get into that equation?”  
“Now, now, Captain. No need to get defensive.”  
“Unless someone needs defending.”  
“Look, its simple. Dr. Cooper is back in the states and we don’t expect it’s innocent.” Ross going on. “Especially in proximity to Dr. DeFries and Wexler so…”  
Nat saw Steve’s jaw clench.   
“Dr. That’s Dr. Wexler.” He clarified, speaking about ½ a beat slower than usual. A warning.  
“Yes, yes, of course. Dr. and well-respected, DOD and everywhere I’m sure.” Ross egregious. “…Quite a threesome though. Her, DeFries, now Cooper. Quite a history.” Ross again, nervous puff across his coffee. Quick sip.  
A threesome?! Had he said that? Nat blinked, looked up at Sam. Teeth clenched. Sharon looking tense, miserable.  
“Would you like to expand on that?” Steve asked, beginning to sound dangerous.  
“Sure, sure. But first, Captain, and no offense. Would it be fair to say that, just have to ask… it appears that, since the DOD engagement your relationship with, uh, Dr.Wexler has ummm….evolved.?”  
“and what does that have to do with…” Steve interrupting.  
Nat stepped not-so-lightly on his foot. He shut his mouth. Slight upward jerk of his chin Ross didn’t notice and she took the lead. “I’m sorry. Director Ross, why are we here?”  
Everyone went quiet.  
Three breaths and Sharon tried again. “Cooper has a vendetta against Dr. Wexler. She got him fired.”   
“Actually I think he did that himself.” Steve snapped. Then colored, embarrassed. Shouldn’t’ve snapped.  
“Of course, of course… but her interest in the situation.” Ross, still trying.  
“What interest?” Natasha jumped in before Steve erupted.  
“She could have recused herself.” Sharon, heating up now.  
“From what? Why?” Steve, snapping again. Sheesh.  
“From the judicial committee. She stood to benefit from Cooper’s dismissal.”   
That set him back. Sharon cooled, took a breath and continued. “So, what we know is that this kid Lucas Baden, accused Cooper of sexual assault, blackmail for grades, whatever. Cedar was on the committee and was one of the five votes against him.”  
“What does this have to do with the party?” Sam piped up.  
“Director, again. Why are we here?” Natasha, focused.  
“Eyes and ears, whatever else might be needed. At this party, and perhaps maybe, you already have an invitation?” Eyes cutting back to Steve.  
“No, why?” asked icily.  
“Just, uh, thought perhaps. But she tends to keep a few on a string at a time, so…”  
“Wait.” Steve leaning over the table toward Ross. “Say what you’re saying.”  
“You’re good cover, Captain.” Grinning.  
“Cover? For what…”  
“You aware that DeFries and Wexler meet monthly? I won’t say like clockwork because we can’t clock it. Meaning…” Ross noted Steve’s glance at Nat. “It appears random, but is usually late afternoon, fluctuates around their class schedules and…”  
“They authored a paper together.” Steve said slowly. “Why would meeting be so strange?”  
“Well, it’s quick. Usually four to seven minutes. He always comes to her. No discernable pattern as to timing; but a monthly check in. Without fail. What’s he doing?” Ross, self-satisfied.  
“You mean it sounds like a drop.” Natasha clarified. Ross nodded. Steve was shaking his head.  
“If it was a drop they’d be hiding it. You’ve found a pattern…”  
“But not the meaning.” Sharon interjected. “It’s so regular. For two years now Steve, only when school’s in session. Otherwise he phones her.”  
“Two years?” He asked. “You have dates?” How long had they been surveilling her? Why? Research and writing the paper would’ve taken a long time but…  
Sharon produced a piece of paper and slid it across the table to Steve. He pushed it between him and Nat so she could see. A list of dates and times.  
“Well” Nat responding immediately. “Days are all odd numbers.” Steve did a double take. Wanda shifted. She hadn’t spoken but was peering at the paper. Steve slid it towards her.  
“and primes.” She said.  
“What?” Steve, Natasha and Sharon at the same time.  
Wanda’s big brown eyes up, uncertain. She turned to Steve, then focused on Natasha. The dates are all prime numbers.”

“That,” said Ross reaching for the paper, “is a very interesting observation young lady.” Threw shade at Sharon. Her jaw worked.  
Steve, leaning back again, bluffing a little. “Ok, so I’ll bite. Why is that so interesting?”  
“Prime numbers are often the basis of most cryptography systems.” Sharon clarified.  
“Well, the paper was on cryptography.” Steve interjected. “DeFries is pretty full of himself. Showing up like that, regularly. It’s probably his idea of a sly joke.”  
“Or it’s a code.” Ross, stating the obvious.  
“You’re fishing.” Steve declared. “She’s in danger? She’d colluding? Which is it then?” Eyes on Ross.  
“You make my point Captain, she’s in the middle of it all.” Ross right back at him. Steve leaned back dismissively.  
“Cooper.” Sharon was insisting. “Let’s get back to that. We can’t lose site of this. He considers her especially responsible. She did encourage the student to press charges.”   
“She was his advisor.” Steve returned, trying to refocus, to maintain composure.  
“And was the deciding vote.” Was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Not fair, only one of five but…didn’t matter. That did it. Steve practically slammed himself against the back of the booth. Nat jumped.  
“Ok, ok” Sharon started again.  
“Interest” Natasha insisted. “What did you say? Where was her interest?”  
Sharon breathing in and out through her nose. Couldn’t speak. Steve couldn’t even raise his eyes. Ross stepped in, surprisingly composed.  
“Cooper had an endowed chair. She stood to ‘inherit’ it, if you will.”  
Steve’s eyes came up. Genuine confusion. “I thought he was Physics.”  
Ross again. “Astrophysics actually, but, strange folks, these academics. He has a double Ph.D. Astrophysics and Biology, dual appointment to both departments, or each department. His specialty is actually…” paused and made air quotes for emphasis “The Biology of Astrophysics.”  
Silence. Memory. 

“Aliens?” Wanda asked. Broke the spell. She hadn’t even been on the team then.   
“Well, well, ummm.” Ross was taken aback by her speaking up. Treading air trying to figure out how not to answer.  
“Too much weirdness.” Sharon, abrupt. “That’s what we can tell you.”  
“Ok, then.” Steve stood. “Speaking of recusing. If that’s all you can tell us.” Picked up the untouched coffee. Turned toward Natasha. “You guys decide. I’ll be wherever if you decide you need me.”   
Walked out. Nearly destroyed the trashcan throwing away his cup.

“Nice work” Sam to Ross.  
“Oh, he’ll be there if we need him.”


	17. Roses And Candy

Hot, grouchy. This time of year was always a problem. The radiators in the old buildings poured the heat even if the temperature outside moderated. She’d shucked off stockings but jammed her boots back on, in case students came by; or Bill again, it was about that time. But guess who - quite a surprise and looking confused.  
“Hey,” she asked.   
“Hi,” He looked around back at Muriel. Cocked his head at her and frowned, looked down at the parcel in his hand. He looked so flummoxed she got up and ushered him in, closing the door.   
“What’s the box?” Facing him now, noticing him noticing her bare legs.  
“Um. Well, see I was just… I decided I wanted to buy you some flowers.” His pitch rose at the end of the sentence “…and remembered there’s this shop down the street.” Pitch high again, questioning.   
Her chest filled up. Hand went to her mouth. “Oh, no. You met Reggie?” Wide eyes.  
“Uh, maybe?” Now gesturing with the wrapped box. “Is that the guy? At the shop? I went in and well…” He was still in shock, or play-acting really well.

‘Ok, fine.’ She was gonna make him tell the story and she was gonna enjoy it.  
“So you know this guy?” She kept nodding and closed her eyes. “Asks me what kind of flowers? Did I even know? Does she even like ‘cut’ flowers?” She was loving it, kept nodding.   
She could feel the water gathering at the corners of her eyes and her stomach started to hurt.   
“Basically like ‘blood diamonds’ if you asked him.” He went on, might as well have had one eyebrow the two were knit together so tightly now. “ ‘I guess you’re thinking roses, of course. Am I right?’ He asks me and I don’t even know what to say at this point, ‘cause of course I was. But, well…obviously that’s wrong, clearly. His tone of voice even. Man!”   
She was wrapping her arm around her stomach, trying not to laugh.  
“But there’s more…” she was shaking now. “He says ‘Well, this time of year they’re only greenhouse or from Columbia, nothing local.’ Like, local roses? Cedar, is that a thing?”  
Deep breath. “Yep, that’s Reggie. He’s great, honest.” Another breath. “He really is, but you gotta know what you’re in for…” Trying to explain, but laughing. Actually snorted. Nice.  
“Ok, so yeah, I’ll take your word for it. He’s like, ‘Do you know what she likes?’ I’m like, ‘Well maybe I’d better find out.’ and he’s like ‘Yes, I think you’d better.’ Turns around and walks back behind the counter.” Her eyes were closed. Holding onto his arm, laughing. Loved it. Warm in here. Fun to make her laugh.   
“So, clearly I’m the worst kind of lunkhead, and I’m feeling like it.” Paused a minute because she couldn’t breathe yet. “Do you like roses? Do you like cut flowers? ‘Cause now I’m thinking – well?! Who knows??” Still shaking his head, trying to shake off the encounter…

She took a big breath, wiped her eyes. “I love them, Steve. I love cut flowers. To Reg’s point…They’re decadent. They’re wasteful. It’s…” snorted laughing, then lost in giggles. “…flower murder… and I love it.” Forehead against his arm. “I think he even said that once.”

“Oh, well. Maybe next time.” She smelled amazing, or maybe it was the candy. Hot in the room. Felt warm from making her laugh, that electricity of being this close, just standing close. No stockings.  
“Ok, so” she’d turned to her desk and grabbed a Kleenex, wiped her eyes. “So, what have we here?”  
“Well,” extending the box, trying so hard not to notice the freckles on her chest, or remember the other morning. Focussing on his hand, passing her the box. “Here’s where it gets interesting, actually. Open it up.”

Open it up. She was hot.  
She took the box. Shook it a little. Scraping sounds. Hmmm. Brown grocery bag cut up and tied with a red silk ribbon. Pulled. ‘Open it up.’ God, it was warm. Maybe she should open the window. Looked at him. He nodded.  
“I don’t know what you’ll think but…” grinning, head tilt. That grin, giving it all away, such an amateur, clearly pretty pleased with himself.   
It was a box of candies, soft, homemade with a pinkish tinge, almost marbled with color. Four pieces were nestled in the box. Looked like nougat coated in sugar. Smelled amazing.  
“See they’re rose candy. Candy made with roses. Best of both worlds right?” Asking, prompting.

And now they were on the ladder. She’d put it in her mouth, smelling roses, tasting sugar. Had an idea. Multi-sensory, this candy. Crossed the room, boosted the window up a bit, cool air streaming in. The ladder was in that corner. Stepped onto the second step…  
“You like it?” He was asking to her back.  
Still holding the other half the piece in her hand she motioned him over. He put the box on her desk. When he was close enough she hooked her hand around his neck and pulled him hard. Caught by surprise, he still caught himself against the wall and the bookshelf. God, the way he could move, like a dancer, didn’t even stumble. Mouth opened with a question. She answered by shoving the candy in. Leaning back against the ladder she wove her fingers through belt loops, and pulled him again, lips to his mouth. He shuddered into her as she wound a leg around him. Let himself lower toward her. She started gently sucking on his lips, opening his mouth with her tongue and teeth.   
“So you like it.” After a moment.   
She was still tracing sugar onto his lips with her tongue. “Steve,” remembering the other afternoon, she whispered at his jawline, scooting hips toward the edge of the rung. “Open me up.”  
His brain defected, getting used to that. Just rode out the tectonic shift, the earthquake his body executed. His center of balance now between her legs, he let his hands take the lead, open palms moving under and around her thighs.   
She was winding her arms around his neck. The candy was dissolving slowly, the boarder between them dissolving, nipples hurting against his chest. His hand running up her side and cupping her breast; rendered a sighing heave in her body. She was coming unwound; his other hand underneath her skirt and her underwear, thumb was circling the bone beneath the front pleat of her skirt. Kissing like breathing, like a kind of nourishment she’d been craving.  
“I want you…” she murmured at his ear.  
Laugh at her ear. “Here?’  
“Yes, here.” Deep sigh. Chuckle.  
“Well,” hands back to her legs, thumbs just inside her knees.   
“Ohgod! Ohgod! Ohgod! Ohgod!” She jumped, put both hands on his chest and pushed him back a little. He straightened, created space, keeping his hands on her.   
She tipped her head back, resting it on the ladder. “Oh, I know what’s going on here.”  
“I – uh.”   
“Yeah, well, yeah but…” Deep breath. “This is not a good time.”  
“I kinda wondered, your office?”   
“Oh, my office. I wouldn’t mind that but…timing. I,”

He was having trouble not to moving his hands; watching the way it made her lashes flutter, her breath catch, her face relax.  
“Hey, hey.” She whispered. “Hold it buddy. Here’s the thing. We’re drunk. Its pheromones. I’ve been in here all day, heat on, window closed.”  
“You need to relax, you’re ranting.” Kept moving his hands, started kissing her again.  
“Mmmmmm, shhhhh. Listen!” a bit stricter. “I’m not that old, see. I’m not ranting. I’m ovulating.”  
Hands froze. Back up, looking at the green eyes.   
Nodding, pursing her lips. “I’m sitting in here broasting all day, stewing in my own hormones, and you walk in all, roses and candy and, well good grief. And believe you me, your body is like – ‘hey’ there’s a party in here’…”  
“Ok, but,” still a little desire stunned.  
“No, nope. I’m not that confident. I’m like clockwork. We’re close to zero hour and condoms fail.”  
“Wow,” he’d backed off a little. Was just stroking the outside of her thighs now. Put a palm against her cheek. Still kissing her.  
“Steve, sweetie, you’re really, you’re making this difficult. I really do want…” her hands up around his neck.  
“Sorry.” He paused. “It just…it just makes you seem even, well, even a little more magical.”  
“Ha! Not magic, most of us work this way see…just really …ugh, I hate that word, gotta be a better one, and…” tensing. “Dammit” She kissed him again, tongue searching for sweetness and the tension started seeping away. He was leaning easily into her, the ladder pressing into her back, hands pressing toward her again.  
“Steve,”  
“That sounded kinda’ like ‘please.’” He whispered.  
“Here’s the thing. If we keep this up you need to decide what you’re gonna do when I actually start saying ‘please.’”  
“Huh.” He leaned his forehead against the opposite rung of the ladder. Hung there, breathing.  
He slid his hands to the outside of her thighs, backed up, and pressed her legs together, shifting her on the rung, turning her knees away from him toward the window, keeping her close. Leaning against her hip, arms around her. She smiled against his cheek.  
“Baptist birth-control.” She chuckled.  
“Sorry, what?”   
“That’s what the older ladies told us girls…best way to keep from getting pregnant, girl keeps an aspirin between her knees.”  
He started chuckling, but the phone rang. Two deep sighs sent her off the ladder to pick it up.  
“Hello, oh,” she glanced at the calendar. Pressing her eyes closed. “Of course. Tell him five minutes Muriel. What? Yeah, I’ll bet he does.”  
What was the date? He wondered. The 17th. She hung up the phone.  
“Ok, well,” she began.  
“…just leaving.” But she looked sad. “or…staying?”  
“No. It’s just. It’s Bill,” she was grinding her teeth. “This has to stop. It’s a long story and I…” looking around.  
“Want me to stay?” wrong thing to say. Now he was complicit. Wait? What did he think? Was he suspecting her now?  
“No, no, I gotta do this, make it stick this time.”  
“Cedar,” wanting, wishing, if there was a confession, he needed to be the one who heard it.  
“Look, it’s just embarrassing and I’ll tell you later, OK but…”   
Knocking. They both turned to the door, turned back to each other. He walked to the window and boosted it the rest of the way open. Heard her office door opening.  
“One of your favorites, I think.” DeFries speaking just after the creak of the door. Then, “Oh, I. Captain Rogers.” Stopped by surprise. Steve turned “We seem to keep running into each other.”   
“…and, yep.” Cedar had taken the plant and was sitting on the edge of her desk, leaving the two men facing each other; DeFries’ false smile punctuated by canines.  
Not bothering with the handshake. “That we do.” He answered, hands in his jacket pocket. Let him hang there a minute.  
Cedar turned.  
“But I was just leaving.” Steve finished, smiling at her. She looked blank, or lost. A band tightened around his chest. “Hey,” stepped to her, kissed her temple, “you’re coming for dinner, right? Burgers or fish?”   
“Burgers,” gripped his jacket.   
Surprised, by the gesture, that she wasn’t annoyed at the display. “You bet.”

 

Heard the door he’d left unlocked opening, he ducked out of the kitchen in time to see her setting down the plant, staring at it a moment then shrugging out of her coat. She was moving slowly, a little slumped, distracted.  
“Hey, there…” he was wiping his hands on a dishcloth. “I thought you’d leave that at the office.”  
She looked up. “What?”  
“The plant.”   
“Oh, no.” Shaking her head she started walking into the kitchen. “I’m taking it to church and, oh, it smells so good in here, and, hey…?”  
He’d moved out of the way, revealing another Amaryllis sitting on the kitchen counter. The bulb was visible, ensconced in white stones, talk thick stalk at least 18 inches high, four enormous blood red blooms about to erupt.  
“Steve??” It was the same plant.  
“Mine’s bigger.”   
She looked at him, standing there, feet about a foot apart, muscled arms crossed over his broad chest, always the tee shirt. Regarding the plant.  
“You did not just say…” Closed her eyes, pinched her nose. But smiling.  
“Stopped back by and saw Reggie, you know. Helped me out. That thing…” pointing into the front hallway at the stunted stalk, white blooms with blood speckling their open throats. “Not your color.” Smiling now.  
She was stepping up onto the rung of a counter stool. “Not exactly.”  
“And,” uncrossing his arms, “don’t want to suffer from comparison, you know so…”  
She started laughing. Fingers delicate on the blooms. “Good grief. You and Reg. and…” she stopped, looked at him. “Wait, No, no, no, wait.” Punched him in the arm.  
Eyebrows up.  
“You don’t even imagine?” Eyes into his.  
Face still blank, waiting.  
“ME and Bill? NO, no. Not even close. We’ve kissed, yeah, made out some but…Oh, please!” She gave him a push.   
“Hey, I, assuming nothing, just…” Shrugging. Smiling.  
She rolled her eyes, then absently started pushing her hair away from her neck, reaching for her purse.  
Her neck, let his thumb drift there. She liked the plant.  
Winding a hairband into a pony tail. “No. That’s part of what makes this whole thing so ridiculous, anyway.”  
“What’s ridiculous?”  
Hand to her browbone. “Ok, this is embarrassing.” Huffing out a sigh, then speed talking. “Steve, every month he shows up with his grandmother’s engagement ring and asks me to marry him.”

Pulled back, checked her face. “Every month?”  
“For two years! Or almost two… and” hands out. “What the fuck? I mean? Like I said we haven’t even. So I’ve thought maybe it’s a strategy, to get me in bed? But that’s just. He’s such a …” shrugged, dropped her hands.  
“Every month for two years?” Steve repeated.  
“Yes! Get a clue right??”  
“I, well, I” shaking his head, had re-crossed his arms. “I gotta admire his persistence, I mean…”  
“No, no. No, no, no.” shaking her head hard. “It’s not persistence. It – well it borders on harassment!” oh, oh, the eyebrows knitted again. Maybe that was too strong. “I mean, he’s never done anything. But I keep thinking I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not interested in him that way.” Sigh. “But then the paper, and he brings Thai food, probably clocks the premenstrual thing too.”  
“Well, that I don’t like at all.” Out of his mouth.  
They looked at each other. Laughed.

“So,” he brushed her sleeve with his fingers. Just couldn’t stop that kind of thing. “How about we stop talking about him. You like this? Reg picked it.”  
Leaned into him, chuckling. “You know I do. You’re right. I love the color.” Couldn’t keep her hands to herself, after all that in her office, the simple heft of his body felt magnetic. Put her hand on his warm neck, looking at the blooms, drew his gaze there. “Makes me think of white sheets and,” pinching his chin “deflowered virgins.” Working to sound sultry.  
“Oh,” Tossed his head free, “So I’m de-flowered, huh?”  
Just as Sam walked in.  
“Gonna act like I didn’t hear…” Sam continued toward the kitchen.

“Do you not realize you live with other people??” Cedar abrupt, coloring, had thought the house was empty, or just embarrassed at the bubble they created for themselves.  
Steve was shaking his head, smiling and staring at the floor.  
“Oh, it’s ok,” Sam continued in his path but nodded and smiled, at Cedar. “We’ve all talked about it.” Steve’s head came up. “Cap’s lady’s here, we’re wallpaper.”  
Steve huffed. She laughed.   
“Oh, well. That’ reminds me, ‘Cap’s lady’…” zeroed him with her eyes. He mimed ducking.  
“I was waiting to get smacked for that.”  
“Maybe later,” she winked. Felt his face get hot. Sam chuckled.  
“No really, uh ‘Cap’. Turns out, I need a date.”


	18. Some Party

“I have no incentive to zip this dress.” He looked into her face in the mirror.  
He’d come up the stairs to find her looking too fragile. Balanced on ridiculously high heels she’d borrowed, in a dress just that color red, her hair up, done at a salon, and threading on dangling garnet earrings.  
She’d motioned him behind her “zip me up.” And he’d started to, but then…  
Now she was staring at him staring at her in the mirror. “Steve, c’mon. Nothing’s gonna happen. Help me out here. It’s all ridiculous but we need to go through with it.”  
He knew all that but looked at her shoulder blades and her back bisected by the zipper. “I don’t like it.”  
“You don’t have to like it ‘boss’,” came Nat’s voice over coms. “She’s right, and, you’re not actually the boss.”  
“Well, that’s for sure.” He said out loud.  
“Ah, your new boss on my side?” Asked Cedar.  
He put his hand on the zipper. Just stalling now, drew the zipper down slowly and intentionally, past the curve of her hips, to the point he could glimpse his favorite pair of underwear. She leaned back into him. Closing the space between them.  
She smiled at him in the mirror.   
Leaned his forehead into her updo and sighed, could smell her even through the heavy scent of hair spray. Pulled up the zipper and fastened the tiny hook.

Now that was all a pleasant memory.

He was breathing heavy from stress, exertion, anger? Concentrating on her face, her eyes, willing himself not to touch her. They’d been here before. Careful. Hands outstretched, hovering about three inches from her arms, ready to catch her.  
“Are you ok?” Just like another time, she was looking like a wild animal, but now there was stuff in her hair, a scratch on her cheek. She kept scanning the room, scanning the wreckage.  
“Some party, huh?” Voice off-hand, struggling for sarcasm. Ok, that was good, some coping going on. Still not looking at him, still scanning.  
A little sterner. “Cedar.” Eyes came back around to him. “Focus up.”  
She frowned, zoomed in.  
“Are you Ok? You didn’t exactly follow Nat’s orders back there... are you.” Realized he was panting like a racehorse. Pulled a deliberate breath in through his nose.   
“Are you… physically, ok?”  
Frown again, but focused. Quick nod. Eyes wide. “I think…” Not blinking. “I think I’m a little bit afraid of you.”  
“OK. I get that.” Dropped his head, hands.

Some party for sure. It had all started out so well. The dress she was wearing, that infamous red that made her eyes radiate green. The white wool coat, earrings that cast light onto her neck when she stood near lamps, candles. The way she moved around the crowd, introducing him. She’d been laughing, enjoying herself. The people were nice, it hadn’t actually been awkward. He remembered thinking ‘This might be what it’s like to be a regular person.’ But all the while, the new shield, stowed in a closet, strings of widow bites, knowing Clint and Sam were on the roof, DOD agents on the ground and in the stair wells.   
The conversation had been tougher than he’d imagined. Once Cedar had asked him about going everything gathered its own momentum, overtaking them. Sam had overheard the invitation and texted Nat. She showed up moments later and they briefed both her and Steve. Cedar was livid, flustered, mostly just aghast. The decision was go to the party with heavy cover and see what happened.  
“You’re in charge.” Steve’d asked Nat, eyes between her and Sam.   
“Yeah, about that… Once you said you trusted me…with your life. But what about hers Steve? Can you do that?” He went quiet, jaw working. The pause filled the kitchen.  
“Hello!....I do! I can!” Cedar had declared.

 

So luckily Nat was there too. Short pixie blond in a yellow dress, nose ring, two guns under the skirt. He was staring down at the shield, the new one T’challa had had made for him, silver star dead center in his field of focus. How had it gotten down there? The floor was a mess of dust, glass, bits of plaster, marble, splintered wood. So much for the dean’s penthouse. Now, ‘I think I’m a little bit afraid of you.’ He’d been wrong. Something did happened. In the course of things he’d ripped the marble mantle off the wall, and, vaguely remembering, thrown a couch. What sane person wouldn’t be afraid? But he’d dropped the shield? Evidently dropped it and been reaching for her? OK, this wasn’t helping. Moved to reach down, just pick it up, not stomp the edge and flip it back onto his arm. ‘I think I’m a little bit afraid of you.’ Echoing.  
But as he moved, she darted, quick, fluttering into his space, right up against him. “Not permanent.” Breath on his neck.  
His arms around her, shelter space, not crushing. “Cedar.” Shield still facing up from the floor.

“I need to go home.” How could she convey. He was so warm and she could feel the sweat on her neck going cold, heart trammeling. “…or more” the muscles in her neck felt like they were trying to tear her head off, “bad things might happen.” Out of breath.  
“I don’t think…” he stopped. Relief? The flood of that feeling a surprise. He didn’t have to. “Nat?” almost simultaneous with his question Natasha saying “Uh, uh, not a chance. Just getting DeFries stowed in some DOD cache house. She’s going there… or… Steve, you know it’s not safe right?”  
“Of course.” He was answering the voice in his ear. Meanwhile she was spiraling straight down, dark tunnel, old rabbit hole.   
The open window, her hand trapped on the sill, another man, bigger than her; too close, too angry, yelling. One big hand like a vice on her wrist, the other on the sash. He was going to slam the window, break her fingers, shatter. Shattered glass, shattered hand. Her heart jumped. Screaming. Another man, older, bigger. Unbuckling his belt. She was on the ground this time, barbs in her neck, loops around her torso. He was going to rape her, kill her, or kill her, rape her. Heart jump, white flash. Screaming, the big men screaming, and screaming, and screaming.  
Knees wobbled. Arms…now, not then, real, different, safe, holding her up. Echo of her name.  
“Some. Party.” Heard her own voice, barely audible. “Did I say that already?”

Soft light. A lamp? A nightlight? Unfamiliar wall. Shifted away from the pain, turned over. Heard movement. It felt like the blankets had been pre-heated. A soft brush against her cheek and she turned like an infant to the breast, kissing the back of his hand. Heard a shaky breath. Re-opened her eyes.  
He’d been leaning over her but knelt now. Behind him a lamp with a dark shirt draped over it.   
“I pass out?” she asked, mouth still against the back of his hand.  
“Shocky.” Stroking her cheek again.  
“Lame.” rolled her eyes and closed them.  
Voice low. “Cedar, do you…”  
“Where are we?” looking around. “This, uh, your place? Upstairs?”  
“Yeah, Nat doesn’t think it’s safe for you to be at yours. I didn’t want…”  
“Right, right. OK, something about Bill and a safe house. Yeah. No. Thanks for that.” Still sleepy.  
“I didn’t want to leave you alone or… and, Cedar, you told us some stuff. Nat wants to know if you have a, a therapist or counselor, or somebody. That we need to call them.” His voice, taut.   
She tried to wake a bit more. Reached for his face. “Well, how about we just call yours? Or maybe, Dr. Banner’s. hmmm?” eyes on his. “Or we could call Natasha’s therapist, oh, but I don’t speak Russian.”  
His face had relaxed under her palm, but then he pulled her hand away, holding it gently. “Cedar, if…it sounded like. I think other people have experienced…”   
“No, no, no, no. I’m sorry.” Awake now. “Let’s be clear. It didn’t happen.” Still watching his face she wiggled the fingers in his hand. “No broken fingers. No broken hand. Not dead, right? And no, not raped.”  
He put her hand back on his cheek, then over his heart, held it there, looking at the floor. Finally his body was letting him go, slumping forward a bit. His other hand to his face, squeezing across his eyes, then rubbing hard. What all had she said? What had he been imagining?  
“Steve.” Eyes back to her, looked like he was about to cry.  
“Hey, hey, hey” modulating her tone, leaning, reaching for him, rising out of blankets. He was caught, couldn’t shake it.  
“Cedar, the thought of someone.”  
“That’s all. Just the thought – only. That’s all. C’mere” trying to pull him into the bed, under the comfort of the blankets.  
Resisting. “You just kept saying ‘big men.’ Cedar?” Now spreading his arms, looking at her like an apology. But he was caving. The desire to be close pulling him.  
“Them, not you. Not you Steve. Not at all you. I know that.” For some reason the leather jacket on. She was pushing it off. “That’s not what happened.”  
She pulled. He crawled onto the bed beside her, refusing blankets, staying distant. His hand on her shoulder. He wasn’t going to ask. Needed to know.  
“Ok, I’m going to tell you what did happen” hurried on. “I want to, I need to. Just…” Oh, oh. Voice going shaky. She leaned forward, kissing his lips, his face, pressed her forehead against his. “Can you…please.” She wiggled closer.

 

Her voice against his neck, traveling up inside bones into his ear, his brain. “Brian was my student advisor, undergrad then on into grad school. It got complicated. I was young. He should’ve known better, been better, but I wasn’t used to being treated well, right? Especially by men. Didn’t know better. When I got to the point I wanted to leave, he’d get crazy. Go on and on. Threaten to kill himself, the whole bit. I was growing up, getting stronger. One day I’d packed, and dumb luck, stupid fate, he came back to the bungalow early.” Breathe, keep going.  
“The window. That was him.”  
Steve was holding his eyes closed, but it wasn’t helping. “What happened?” he asked. Images kept forming inside his eyelids, so he opened his eyes only to find that unfortunately they were there on the wall behind her too, playing out like a movie. He was seeing details, the small hand, long fingers splayed on the sill, cruel California sunshine x-raying delicate bones. A huge hand gripping her wrist. In his mind movie the man had dark hair on his arm, cruel fist.  
“Steve. Where are you?”  
“Sorry. Can you – tell me?”  
“I was. Listen. I don’t know if… Well, doesn’t matter. I was convinced, convinced, like the other time. He was going to slam that window. I was seeing it, feeling it. Curse of the overactive imagination.”  
“Cedar,” he needed to hear. She hurried on.  
“Skiing accident. He had a pin, screws in his femur. I get that freaked out; stuff happens. The screws,”   
He felt her swallow, trying to go on.  
“stripped. See…” How to explain? “It’s like my heart jumps and…”

“The screws?” redirecting. “Stripped?”  
“Threads. The threads got stripped. I – the screws jerked out.”  
“Of the pin in his leg?”  
“Of his leg.” Pause. Breathe.  
“That would explain the screaming.”

“Devil’s rope?” She was gonna lose it again. Laying there up against him, trying not to tremble. Mantra in her head. ‘Just make love to me, please make love to me. Just make love to me.’ All she wanted to ask. ‘Wrap himself around her?’ Hadn’t he offered? A week ago? Two weeks ago?  
No, nope. What was it Madeline L’engle’d said in Other Side of the Sun? Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it. The only way is through. A song…childhood church? Bosom of Abraham; playing in her head – ‘so tall you can’t go over it, so low you can’t go under it, so wide you can’t get ‘round it. You must go in at the door.’  
Well, this was the door. Keep talking  
“Barbed wire…it’s another name for barbed wire – Devil’s rope. Probably a World War I reference. Someone had a spool in their truck. I wasn’t penitent enough after the near drowning so… binding up the strong man? Bind up the devil, right? Devil’s rope. Made sense to them. Out in the parking lot, they wrapped some around my neck, pinned my arms down by my sides, looping it around… - not too tight!” He’d gone rigid, she was trying to comfort with that? Not too tight? Keep going, just keep going.  
“Just to keep me from moving. Then someone pushed me down. That was the first real pain, and Corry, God! He’s hysterical now, throwing punches. Same time, Leonard starts taking off his belt…probably just going to beat me but…” She was talking directly into his chest now, could feel her own words vibrating into his sternum. Her own fists curled against him. Tried to calm her voice. Lecture Cedar, just describe. Keep it clinical.  
“But I got convinced. Matthew wasn’t going to show up, no one was. On my own; and this man. I was convinced. He’s going to rape me and kill me or, and somehow this was worse, kill me and then...”  
“Stop, Cedar, stop.” He choked on his words, his body actually starting to shake, hand now in her hair. Pressing his cheek against the top of her head. “Just – just, what happened.”  
Swallowed hard. “Heart jumped, first time ever. The barbs on the wire started, pinging? I remember the sound. They were dropping, shooting out. They unwrapped from around the wires, went from wound and crimped to completely straight. Then the long wires started writhing. Untwisting, unspooling?” What words? Just describe. “The wire, it all went completely straight. I was loose.”  
He hadn’t been breathing; had been holding his breath. Let it all out, rolled onto his back, tugging her on top of him, heart beating so hard it shook her shoulders. Mantra started again. ‘Just make love to me, please make love to me.’ The words were rising, like a sob in her own chest.  
He bent his knee, his leg coming up between her thighs, rising against her, pushing her up along his body. Floods of pleasure, relief. She was drowning. If only he’d let her drown. His mouth was everywhere; behind her ear, on her neck. Hands moving along her sides. ‘Make love to me just make love to me.’ Filling her head. His hands on her ribcage pulling, knee pushing her up along his body. The heels of his hands gentle on the fullness of her breasts. She pressed against him. Her hands behind his head, open mouth on his neck, breathing, kissing, scraping her teeth along his skin, losing herself.  
She started struggling. Wanted to open herself across him, find him. But the dress. Taffeta, too tight across the tops of her thighs, her hips. Dress binding her, binding. She couldn’t move enough, couldn’t be where she needed to be. The coiling started, her neck muscles tearing again, chest seizing. The sob escaped. NO! He’d misunderstood, had let go, was tipping her off him.  
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Cedar,”  
“NO!” almost yelling. He went still.  
Now she was shaking, holding onto him. “No.” whisper. “It’s the dress.” tears leaking, panting, panicky. “The dress. It feels like wires.” Too much. Too much crazy. Too much baggage. He didn’t need this.  
But there he was, close again, whispering into her hair, reaching around behind her.  
“But Cedar,” voice steadier. “Sweetheart, you beat wires.” She realized what he was doing, went soft all over.  
“As for this” drawing down the zipper. “You’re not alone anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work for fun and therapy. Hope you enjoy. Please leave comments and let me know how I can improve as a writer and when things are unclear regarding characters or plot points. I like the idea of keeping characters and their behavior within the scope of cannon character but not limiting them to surprising reactions that might stem from new encounters.


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